David Eye offers a moment of horror and a moment of beauty at the airport.
—
Unspoken at JFK
Laptop battery sapped, finally a corner of floor
by a free outlet. Soon, a muscled man with a buzz-cut
and the same need. Stateside on leave, this sergeant
was headed back to Baghdad, no questions asked,
and did I want to see some photos. Before and after
shots: rows of tents where there’d been only sand.
See how much better, he said. No, I thought, but what I said was
I was Army, too—captain, before I could weigh that word.
The slightest nod. He didn’t ask where or when, I didn’t offer.
I didn’t tell him about the weekend, the rally, the march
against the war. How about more photos, some he didn’t show
most people. My stomach gripped. Before I could answer,
he pulled up folder after folder on his desktop, my pulse racing
with the first double-click. He took them from the back
of a HUM-V he said, while the hourglass icon hovered
like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. Before I could run,
the first photo bled across the screen—blues and pink,
lavenders—a sunset, then dozens. Clouds, edges limned
in silver. Red-faced career soldier about my age, biceps straining
his seams, smitten with pastels and shimmer, the quality of light.
***
First published in Consequence Magazine, Spring 2010 (Finalist, 2009 Consequence Prize in Poetry).
Reprinted in Between: New Gay Poetry, Chelsea Station Editions, 2013.
David Eye’s published with us before. Read “Targets.”
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Photo credit Flickr/TruthOut