He threw his toys from the pram with effortless grace
He had the look of an effeminate saint
A definite waste of a life, he was set in his ways
Losing his grip, his footing was strained. – James Albright
He explained his vision to me through crayons and paint
A day wouldn’t break where he wouldn’t pray as he waits
For the rain to touch the ground that he walks on evenly
Easily, he doesn’t see the scenes that I need him to see
He was breathing before I met him, and he’d walk the same line
In his dreams, in my dreams, in her dreams, sure of the train times
Short of the strained lies I told him, he believed in my speech
He thought I was there with him; I was asleep in the trees
He walked in cracked grey feet with a chip on his shoulder
One slip and it’s over, a death fitting a soldier
I watched the back of his head with a rifle in hand
He hears the whispers of sirens on land, a tiring fad
He looks so shy as he drags his body on stone
Knowing that his footsteps aren’t leading him home
They’re bleeding him slow and he sees angels in bruised hands
Covering bodies with embittered and abused flags
The truth has,
Little to no weight on a carrier pigeon this light
And in this light I see his shame in his fingers twisted too tight
His shoes bite and burn on toes carrying a frail frame
I watch his feminine structure that still holds a male name
This tale came to mind when I read his notes back
Spat on paper with a throat black, I wouldn’t feel so bad
If he hadn’t held my hand while he repeated his lines
He wouldn’t look in my eye, cold words with his breathing so dry
They captured his soul with his squadron, only a camera to own
Taking pictures of peoples misery, which he now saw as his own
A war photographer’s job wasn’t what he signed up for
He just wanted some meaning in life, now he’s hearing those shots call
His name in the wind while he waits patiently for death
Hating me less when he sees my face, inhaling smoke in my breath
He only hopes for a rest, he cares not for peace in his time
He closes his eyes when he marches, he’s not screaming to die
It’s seeming that I look like his saviour with a gun in my grip
He couldn’t sense I was dying too, searching for something to sip
I was just a gook to him
He was just a coon to me
When I watched him walk slow
On bruised toes and feet
We had not a word in common, only scars from the march
He’d speak sermons from his parched lips, the meanings I grasped
I wonder what happened to that man with the dirt on his teeth
Worn up and broken down with his shirt on his feet
I still cry when I see images from the march from Bataan
I still see his head in front of mine, the one that I spat at.
The memory of Bataan lives on.
