by Robert Mayo
I remember coming home softly
with tales
of school yard teasing
how they
said I was pale,
said I was too short,
too quiet too
weak, and,
I remember him,
voice like
drumbeats in my ears
stern but
gentle, and,
I remember him
saying to shove back
if they shove you, son,
him, saying
that their words were
empty shells,
him, saying,
that the meek shall inherit nothing
but the bruises, and,
him, saying,
he knew
I could stand my ground.
I remember his words
filled me up with sunlight.
I could feel them marching
rank and file,
shields set stalwart,
boots clattering
to the rumbling
of his baritone.
Their armor,
glittering in the God-rays,
set them a-twinkle
like powdered silver
scattered in the wind.
The dirt from their feet
was a poultice
on the flesh.
War screams from their mouths
they were
sweet songs
for the storm.
The echoing of forward march
signaled a trampling
on the meekness
inside the heart.
I remember coming home grinning,
the grades far back in my mind,
behind their tight ranks
behind the din of their war-cries
and the grades so
low, the paper so
loose in my clutch, and,
I remember
there was a moment
as his hand wound back,
and his finger touched lightly
the soft blue fabric on his shoulder
when there was no more yelling,
no more anger in his eyes,
passion in his face,
rage in his frown,
and the words they-
Stopped.
The boom of ‘company halt’
and the silence then,
deafening.
And the back of his palm,
whistling,
and the pain on my cheek,
tickling,
and the stars in my eyes,
giggling,
at the words,
who danced
in their rank,
in their file,
glittering in the God-rays,
clad in pyrite.
