BALLAD OF THE ONE-LEGGED MARINE
For Ray Fagan
My left leg was gone with the boot still on—
the boot that I laced in the morning.
I felt like a boy who had stepped on a toy
and made it explode without warning.
They choppered me back to a medical shack
with no one but corpsmen to heed me.
I stared at the sky and prayed I would die,
and cursed when the nurse came to feed me.
I knew that I must, so I tried to adjust
while orderlies struggled to teach me
the will of the crutch and the skill of the cane
and assured me their methods would reach me.
The President came with his generals tame
and explained why he never relieved us.
But the red, white and blue of my lone, right shoe
told the world how he lied and deceived us.
They buried my shin and my bones and my skin
an ocean away from this writing.
But pain finds a way on each given day
to take me straight back to the fighting
when I served with the Corps in a slaughterhouse war
where we tallied our killings like cattle
as if these explain why the armies of Cain
behave as they do in a battle…
Whatever’s a bore, you can learn to ignore,
but a leg’s not a limb you like leaving.
So you deal with regret and attempt to forget
what always is there for the grieving.
If you look for a clue while I stand in a queue,
you can’t tell what’s real from prosthetic.
I walk with a dip that begins at my hip,
but I keep it discreet and aesthetic.
If you’re ordered on line and step on a mine,
you learn what it means to be only
a name on a chart with a hook in your heart
and a life that turns suddenly lonely.
Lose arms, and you’re left incomplete and bereft.
Lose legs, and you’re fit for a litter.
Lose one at the knee, and you’re just like me
with night after night to be bitter.