The cross he couldn’t climb up
loomed too high. He asked the man
why his death satisfied God . . .
his face dissolving, even its bones,
even the dust under the skull.
The G.I. insisting he be called God
fired a round to celebrate,
his body smeared with mud.
Camouflage, he claimed.
You could smell blood, see it run . . .
His ways were inscrutable, said he,
spraying, ripping the immaculate bush.
Bobby followed suit.
Rifles swayed from side to side,
spitting until the screams timed out.
The man on the cross
was going home first but never dead,
he was a short-timer now.
Bobby asked what that meant.
He said, I live on God’s time.
Joe wasn’t going anywhere,
not with all these children waiting
for him to choose one,
lined up to compete to be
the last moving target of this war . . .
Which war? What would a cross do?
Bobby sighed defeat, why not? . . .
bare feet sliding on the stony path
down a nightmare filled with rain.
What did dreams do for Jesus?
(27 March, 3 April 2012)
copyright 2012 by Floyce Alexander