I am not dead

I Am Not Dead

I am cell and bone and blood pumping.

I am a human mix of trouble and pleasure

and good intentions.

I am daydreams of lust and fatherhood,

cold beer and being loved.

I gladly put on the uniform.

Did every damn pushup and lockstep march,

made home in a hole in the desert,

became the man I wanted.

The bullet tore through my chest,

Popping my heart like a child’s balloon.

I was wet with blood and urine.

I was dead, flat dead in the dirt.

The start of my passage was rugged.

But I was cleaned up and placed in my new quarters.

The flight home was quiet and dark,

safe under the flag.

I was glad to feel the weight of the earth

as it piled on top of me.

But even then I am not dead.

I am alive in pictures on the mantel,

in the statue in the town park,

in the memories of me that fade in one person 

and take root in another.

And in that quiet, piercing moment each day

when I come again to my mother.