poetry

War Correspondent
by Marne Kilates

               It was a time when hometowns
Were sleepy, the world was far and its wars
Didn’t intrude in our living rooms.

(The last war we knew was our parents’,
Of which they now seldom spoke,
Having, it seemed, given up on their losses.)

But you roamed our streets in your tattered
Olive-drab, relic, it was said, of Vietnam or Clark,
Its pockets stuffed with the debris of other lives.

One hand cupped to your mouth, the other
At your ear, you were calling perhaps from some
Raging battle. Your voice mimicked the crackle

Of static Your eyes darted, your voice cracked
(The children mocked or watched you wide-eyed).
Was it rescue or assault? Was it swamp or desert?

               In digital glow the breaking news
Interrupts the talk show host. You are babbling
Out-of-synch on the video-phone.

You shudder with each blast, behind you
A city burns. You are embedded
In the invading force that assaults my living room.

August 6, 2005

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