WOUNDS

Looking back the wounds were small and clothed in bright colors,

pull of adventures, sounds of marching boots all in step,

before us a flag of past battles fought and won by brave men who went before,

whose respect we needed to earn before we could sit at the warriors’ feast.

I raised my right hand and swore an oath.

I understood the risk and took it anyway.

For the adventure, the thrill. The uniform.

Songs stirred strong feelings of pride and confidence.

I knew I could fly with Eagles,

I felt the strength in my body, felt part of the flock,

Pulling my weight and pulled along by the strength of my new brothers.

In the beginning I risked 

wounds that happened to others:

Fat Shamed,

Slow shamed

Awkward Shamed

Blanket Parties in the night

Punishing one for the shame of all.

The wounds got bigger more ragged, 

nagging and yet ignored,

pushed back, denied.

Fighting the wound is about being alive and denying fear,

Can’t let it show.

‘WHY AREN’T YOUR BOOTS POLISHED SOLDIER?” 

Death of friends, the worst, 

(thank god it’s not me)

Smell of shit and rotten food 

fear, anger, hopelessness 

helpless rage.

Depression in their eyes young and old.

The death of a country.

I’m part of the ugly.

I wasn’t raised to hate someone because 

their skin, their language, 

their religion or even their politics 

were different.

I’ve made those judgements. 

It leaves a sour taste. 

I’m no longer who I was 

don’t think I can ever go back again.

Laughter has an edge 

the mouth 

smiles but not 

the eyes. 

I don’t feel. 

Except anger.

I drove a truck

worked in supply 

sat at a computer pushing reports

cooked 

loaded boxes 

moved pallets

wrenched motors

I didn’t pull the trigger in anger.

But I too have wounds.