POETRY

There are fishermen who pull stars from the ocean,

who gut them on deck while they steam

breathe the scaled-down light of fish sides. 

At 15, I was no innocent,

knowing, itself, is enough,

as my parents' parents said

to the allies. How could we not be

aware? We picnicked with guns. 

Pale as all the pawnee grasslands,

blue shades cling drily to their roots:

wilderness fades, snapped in our hands; 

Such roses may come out!

Such thick thorns and scented petals

blooming out of our tongues —

it's hard to close the lips

We've become too literal:

we can't take a joke

or a pill or a chair

without prodding, sniffing

like scientists: 

There was a map of Vietnam

above the television set, and mother

said it's a war all right. We

watched it over dinner, keeping

track of it all as best we could.