PROSTHETIC
It's okay to stare. I'm missing a
leg.
No, your kids aren't embarrassing
me.
I was handed a rifle and a
uniform
and told shoot first and wear the colors
proud.
I fired a few rounds here and
there.
I can't say for sure that I hit
anyone.
I was close by when the car
exploded.
Flying metal cut my leg off like a
saw.
A piece of something lodged in my
skull.
I can't quite pronounce the place where it
happened.
It was Kabul or Baghdad or one
of
ten thousand other hot dry
places.
I took orders. I marched. I ate in the
mess.
I don't know why we went only why I
went.
Because I was told to, that's
why.
That was my job - to be
told.
I'm free of that now.
I'm discharged.
No way I get my old job
back.
The neighborhood's not ready
for a one-legged shelf
stacker.
I’m waiting for a bus that will take me
home.
It's a small enough place that my
return
will mean something.
My mother promised me a
band.
We'll see.
The goodwill will last a day or
so.
Then I'll just slide into my old
self,
without the job like I said,
and the girl but she was never mine
anyhow.
I'll have to do something about all those right pants'
legs.
If some guy comes back missing his
left,
maybe we can work something
out.
I'm not bitter. Well maybe my missing leg
is.
I'm to be fitted with a prosthetic
limb.
They say all the troops will be coming home
soon.
We've patched up these countries as best we
can.
We'll have to see if the prosthetic
holds.
BURNING OF THE CANE FIELDS
North of Innisfail,
fields pulse with fire,
cane cut close to earth
gleams like feldspar -
sun's ripped by murk-light
frenzy,
earth scorched hi eucalyptus
grease
and sizzling sugar remains
steamed through ashy stalks
-
fields are mowed by flame,
air swells with blood and
smoke,
trees welter, blister,
and the houses, bleak and
brown,
as always, keep cool with
sweat,
hold on –
then gold-black sky
is split by thunder,
hot rain falls,
puddles everywhere
but red still alive
glows in the dirt,
searing feet and
cooking black snakes -
late at night,
blackened land
awaits breath and cool,
a wind not of its making.
Eden, still resplendent
as long as night's
the painter of its light.
All that lovely solitude
projected on a darkening
matte.
Rustles persevere from tree to
tree.
But in the soundless
heavens,
such a lovely soiree!
Stars in decay?
Not on my watch.
Stars, the cool wind
sets alight.
Their luster is the fire of
eyes.
Tumults of accord
redden the glowing coals.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published
in International Poetry Review, Sanskrit and the science fiction anthology,
“Futuredaze” with work upcoming in Clackamas Literary Review, New Orphic Review
and Nerve Cowboy.
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