< after the war >
by Ray Heinrich
your hands were new leaves
seen through new glasses
crisp against a clear sky
your face was a voice reminding me
of promises made long before the war
of letters written and words said
that refused to be the past
there was a picture of us in the truck
coming over
just over
the crest of that last hill before home
passing the few trees in northpark colorado
us looking like the life we left
the wire fences and the grass we made into hay
to feed all those cows that your mom loved so much
and that i
never understood
suddenly the word korea would appear
with the correct pronunciation of some river or hill
but i quickly changed it
to the barn
or the tractors
or the school board elections
a picture hangs in my head of you
the space grown larger than my east coast soul
and i am always waiting for the motion to return
needing only new batteries or gasoline or parts
it is the time of year
that the leaves
take on the color of your hands
and the trees are crisp in the clear sky
and every image and smell and the scent of your breath
cannot be told from the other
looking for what never was
they tell me now
but i always knew your name
and i always draw your face out of the leaves
crisp in the fall that no dream could match
their details thrown over you
have made a poor shroud full of holes
through which the sun shines
brilliant in the night
