Memorial to Ed Bland
...killed in Germany March 20, 1945;
volunteered for special dangerous mission
...wanted to see action...
He grew up being curious
And thinking things are various.
Nothing was merely deleterious
Or spurious.
Or good.
His mother could
Not keep him from a popping-eyed surprise
At things. He would
Be digging everywhere, until things gave.
Or did not give. Among his dusty ruins,
Suddenly, there’d be his face to see,
And its queer wonderful expression, salted
With this cool twirling awe.
Yes.
People would see this awe and say they saw
Also what he saw. They could never guess
What they should think. They did what people do:
Smiled out—or frowned.
People like definite decisions,
Tidy answers, all the little ravelings
Snipped off, the lint removed, they
Hop happily among their roughs
Calling what they can’t clutch insanity
Or saintliness.
Notes:
The portfolio this poem is part of is comprised of selections from a new seventy-fifth anniversary edition of Annie Allen (Brooks Permissions, 2024), and published here by permission of Nora Brooks Blakely. You can read the rest of the portfolio in the September 2024 issue.
Source: Poetry (September 2024)