Jeffrey Ethan Lee

peace valley elementary school during the vietnam war

 

I could’ve been anyone

the three black kids in the whole school at the time

         whom no one else played with at recess—

the girl so embarrassed to exist

         her eyes slid sideways whenever you talked to her,

         or the pretty blonde who liked the smart boys

         and who could afford to sympathize with anyone—

the one who smiled equally at us all,

         the janitor married to the 4th grade teacher

         in bad plaid dresses, greasy gray hair,

         a stooping gait and a bulldozer face—

the 5th grade teacher who loved reading

         after-recess stories to us,

         stroking our damp heads on wood desktops,

         her voice smooth like her fingers,

         her book a lantern held slightly before her—

the tall oaks hemming the field

that whistled and hissed shrill in the hurricane—

the mouse that bit the boy at Show and Tell

triggering so much rage he yelled, “You bastard!”

         then ran outside, his clenched-white fist

         flinging it to the asphalt—

the big white splash the mouse made

         in the frothing thundershower

         stunning everyone—

or that boy’s friend who raced right after him

         half to stop the killing and half just to get soaked!

or the Texan we teased for being short:

         “Ah thought evrathing frum Texuz wuz BIG!”

the 2nd grade girl only I would like

         because I couldn’t see her “cooties”

         and she didn’t see my color—

the 2nd grade teacher with a face all smooth,

         her hair all light,

         her voice like singing

         until her navy man returned for her;

         like a flower unstrung from the sun

         she cried and clung ecstatic

         against his unyielding uniform,

         its blue the darkest we ever saw,

         his aura raw like the war—

the kid whose right hand didn’t work, “Lefty,”

         who was left out of games till the only other choice

         was Barry the smelly fat kid—

or Barry’s sister who dressed “weird,” he said

         with a leer that mired the air

         like germs when he laughed

         “She’s a slut.”

or the silence in me then that rose

         like smothering black smoke—

 

or Barry’s brother Don who broke their old dad’s leg

         because he did their sister—

or the fish Don caught and cleaned alive

         right before my eyes,

         its heart unable to stop itself

         under his probing switchblade—

or the too-large army surplus clothes Don always wore

         as if a faded jacket could make a man

         of any dropout during the draft—

the creek where as long as daylight held

         we’d re-enact Bismarcks and Titanics

         making drowning cries for plastic disasters,

         then lob bigger rocks—

or Silly Willy who’d hug and kiss us

         at any hockey goal, saying, “They do it on TV!”

         until we yelled in his face, “EWW! Don’t be GAY!”

or Will’s sister whose hippy boyfriend on the couch

         pushed her panties down in her unzipped cutoffs

         stroking her musky crotch,

         which I’d never seen, let alone smelled....

or the dust-cloud rug by the TV that I stumbled on, crashed in—

or Will’s mom then just watching the evening news crying—

or her silver-framed Navy officer photo

         making her weep

         not because he was dead

         but because, “He’s gay,” Will confessed,

         “...and I think I am too, like my dad.”

  

the rich kid Larry with well-groomed hair and perfect clothes

         whose mom reclining on the couch

         stroked my head like a cat’s

         until, half-hypnotized in my hair,

         her eyes were wet with yearnings

         and she called me her beautiful doll—

 

I could’ve been anyone

         if only the cells of the self

         would’ve let me out,

         if only the war on

         TV continually

         would ever turn off,

         but the time would come

         just once in an eon

         when I could be

         ecstatic as any thing

         beyond its self,

         when I was

         each injury,

         every injuring word,

         all the injured,

         and each sun-struck wave

         of grass blown to bliss,

         each inhale of sky in

         every tremulous body

         losing itself inside an other’s,

         all the hiding selves who seek.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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