Poets Against War continues the tradition of socially engaged poetry by creating venues for poetry as a voice against war, tyranny and oppression.
Claudia Sukman
62 years old
Actions Unbecoming My Country
Dear Pvt. Smith:
We understand that you lost your left leg last November on routine patrol in a place no one can remember
Though we hope you are feeling better This is not a condolence letter.
You are considered disabled, no longer One-A. Your enlistment bonus must be returned right away
You can no longer serve your country in any substantial capacity So the administration demands, with typical sagacity
$10,000 be instantly remit From those of you rendered impaired and unfit.
These are the rules, don't unduly demur Re read your contract, the part that's obscure.
Cash or bankcheck can be accepted Or fines and imprisonment will be incepted.
Finally, lest you think we are totally reprehensible We're searching for a jail that's handicapped accessible.
Left, Behind
Private Smith looks down Sees a blank space next to his right leg He has been told he lost his left leg He doesn’t remember exactly how There are blank spaces inside his head, too
Pvt. Smith often considers where his leg might be right now Perhaps on a soccer field The white hairy leg, weaving up and down the soccer field with finesse and abandon Kicking goals Smashing the ball past the goalie into the net Cheered on by “oles” and “hurrahs” From an adoring crowd of limbs: lefts, rights, arms, legs, hands, feet Separated from their owners by landmines and roadside bombs, Eyes, ears, a few toes, The occasional whole head
His leg could be hiking some Southwest canyon trail He pictures his leg, leaning casually on a walking stick, Sunglasses and water bottle nearby, Posing for the photo op, a baseball cap rakishly tilted to the left
Sometimes he sees his leg lying naked in a city street, Rained on Touching trash, Gnawed at by feral cats, Slobbered over by yappy little designer dogs.
Or in a window display of a tattoo parlor, Love for Mom and country proudly inked in primary colors, A parade of unrepentant eagles and all- forgiving Madonnas circles his flesh, Embossing it like a spiral cut Easter ham
Then other times Private Smith thinks of nothing at all
