James Fowler

Congealed

One must be cold

a long time

to search the back

of the freezer

for a package of warmth,

even if pain

thickens the soup to potage.

One must be

cold a long time

to bring the pot to boil:

the sweat

that oozed down the chest,

pooled in the crotch,

overflowed down the legs

into combat boots

that wouldn’t come off

because the feet

were rotting.

One must

be cold a long time

to empty the broth

into a cup.

One

must be cold a long time

to drink it.

Subic Holiday 1971

Along the stretches of the street,

the neon masks enhance the slap

of sandals fastened to the clap

of carnal music’s mangled beat.

Bombarded by the clash, I try

discarding smarting thoughts, but war

napalms me like a burning sword,

for all the bars are dark inside.

An open door, a shadowed girl,

who grins and beckons, come on in.

Her tank top, bare midriff and skin

tight shorts, just barely hide her world

of joy, but mirrors in her eyes

drag up reflections from the night:

the sheen of metal on gunsights,

the eye’s last spark before it dies.

An alley breathes, a lady waves,

and bobs her head. Bar lights play off

her face and spread a reddish gloss.

Adjusting pads, as if to pray,

her mint mouthwash and body spray

bring up the stench of blood still wet,

of guts still squirming loose, and bits

of flesh that won’t wash off my face.

It’s late; I fumble for my key,

then tumble into bed, alone.

I’m still awake when morning comes,

afraid to close my eyes and sleep.

The Ballad of the Reoccurring Dream

Wrenched from sleep, he rasps a breath.

His sheets are soaked. Veins

throb on his temple, so he kneads the nape

of his neck, needs to lessen the pain.

The dream hangs for a moment, moves on.

He struggles to remember, sees the stores’

shuttered doors, feels the sidewalks’

concrete, smells the stink of his sweat,

hears nothing but heartbeats for blocks.

The dream hangs for a moment, moves on.

In a crosswalk, something shivers his spine

but he refuses to look, knows they aren’t far,

doesn’t know who they are, stares straight ahead.

In a life full of choices, he’s chosen the dark.

The dream hangs for a moment, moves on.

His hair stands up straight. A toe

catches the curb. He stumbles, takes

a tumble, falls on his face. Clack

goes the hammer of the gun and he wakes.

The dream hangs for a moment, moves on.