David Hightower

SOLDIER ON THE WALL


The soldier in the frame on the wall
hanging in my grandmother’s hall
had no chance to prove his bravery.
When he stepped into the war,
unseen shells erupted at his feet
and flung him in contradictory directions.
Helpless among simultaneous concussions,
he knew no enemy but chaos.
Explosions churned the battlefield
and buried him beneath the earth.
Mouth and ears packed with dirt,
too stunned to wonder,
he savored the reprieve of the grave.
Even then the barrage found and resurrected his body,
tossed him against a dim sun
and dropped him back to earth.
In the sudden silence afterwards
he stood on trembling, lamb-like legs,
his flesh miraculously intact,
his mind shredded into tattered smoke
the wind would never blow away.
The soldier on the wall
hanging in my grandmother’s hall
peers from his tilted frame
with a puzzled innocence.
He’d seen things so much simpler then,
life or death,
no in between.