My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn’t,
dammit: No tears.
I’m stone. I’m flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way—the stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I’m inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap’s white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman’s blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird’s
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet’s image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I’m a window,
He’s lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names.
No, she’s brushing a boy’s hair.
I read this poem in English class today, and at first I overlooked it and moved on. But then I had a question on one of the assignments that had to do with this poem and as Dr. Mendez was explaining it…tears ran down her face and her face was turning red.
Any kind of writing can have multiple meanings, and I might have interpreted this in another way , but this poem is dedicated to the lives that were lost in the Vietnam war, and not only them, but the family members that had to struggle with the reminiscent of the war: the loss of someone dear to them. This especially goes out to the special people that my special teacher lost.
