Song of Napalm
for my wife
After the storm, after the rain stopped
pounding,
we stood in the doorway watching horses
walk off lazily across the pasture’s hill.
We stared through the black screen,
our vision altered by the distance
so I thought I saw a mist
kicked up around their hooves when they
faded
like cut-out horses
away from us.
The grass was never more blue in that light,
more
scarlet; beyond the pasture
trees scraped their voices into the wind,
branches
crisscrossed the sky like barbed wire
but you said they were only branches.
Okay. The storm stopped pounding.
I am trying to say this straight: for
once
I was sane enough to pause and breathe
outside my wild plans and after the hard
rain
I turned my back on the old curses. I
believed
they swung finally away from me...
But still the branches are wire
and thunder is the pounding mortar,
still I close my eyes and see the girl
running from her village, napalm
stuck to her dress like jelly,
her hands reaching for the no one
who waits in waves of heat before her.
So I can keep on living,
so I can stay here beside you,
I try to imagine she runs down the road and
wings
beat inside her until she rises
above the stinking jungle and her pain
eases, and your pain, and mine.
But the lie swings back again.
The lie works only as long as it takes to
speak
and the girl runs only as far
as the napalm allows
until her burning tendons and crackling
muscles draw her up
into that final position
burning bodies so perfectly assume.
Nothing
can change that; she is burned behind my
eyes
and not your good love and not the rain-swept
air
and not the jungle green
pasture unfolding before us can deny it.
May
I wanted to stay with my dog
when they did her in.
I told the young veterinarian
who wasn’t surprised.
Shivering on the chrome table,
she did not raise her eyes to me when I came in.
Something was resolved in her,
some darkness exchanged for pain.
There were a few more words
about the size of her tumor and her age
and how we wanted to stop her suffering
from happening before us,
and then the nurse shaved May’s skinny leg
with those black clippers;
she passed the needle to the doctor
and for once I knew what to do
and held her head against mine.
I cleaved to that smell
and lied into her ear
that it would be all right.
The veterinarian, whom I’d fought
about when to do this thing,
said through tears
that it would take only a few minutes
as if that were not a long time,
but there was no cry or growl,
only the weight of her in my arms
and then on the world.
Bruce Weigl is the author of 14 books of poetry: Executioner,
Ironwood Press, 1976; A Sack Full of Old Quarrels,
Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 1977; A
Romance, University of Pittsburgh Press, 1979; The Monkey Wars, University of
Georgia Press, 1985; Song of Napalm,
Atlantic Monthly Press, 1988, 1994; What Saves Us,
TriQuarterly Books, Northwestern University Press, 1992, 1994; Sweet Lorain, TriQuarterly Books,
Northwestern University Press, 1996; Lies, Grace, and Redemption
(a chapbook/special issue of YARROW, a literary
magazine, English Department, Kutztown University, 1996; Khoang Thoi Gian Khong Ngu
(selection of poetry translated into Vietnamese and included in this collection
with seven other American writers). Ed. by Nguyen Quang Thieu and translated by
Nguyen Quang Thieu, Vuong Trong, Nguyen Tan Viet and Nguyen Hoang Duc, Nha Xuat
Ban Hoi Nha Van Publishers, Hanoi, 1996; Archeology of the Circle: New
and Selected Poems, Grove/Atlantic Press, 1999; After the Others, TriQuarterly
Books, Northwestern University Press, 1999; The
Unraveling Strangeness, November, 2002, Grove/Atlantic Press; Declension in the Village of Chung Luong, 2006, Ausable Press; The Abundance
of Nothing, TriQuarterly Books, Northwestern University Press, 2012.
His poems have been published in various periodicals such as Poetry, Kenyon Review, TriQuarterly, American Poetry Review, Western Humanities Review, Christian Science Monitor, Missouri Review, New England Review, Southern Review, Tar River Poetry, and many others. He has also written several collections of critical essays; he has published translations of Vietnamese and Romanian poetry and has also edited or co-edited several anthologies of war poetry, including Writing Between the Lines: An Anthology on War and Its Social Consequences (1997) and Mountain River: Vietnamese Poetry from the Wars, 1948–1993; A Bilingual Collection (1998). He has won numerous awards for his work, including the Lannan Literary Award for Poetry, the Poet’s Prize from the Academy of American Poets, and two Pushcart Prizes.
His poems have been published in various periodicals such as Poetry, Kenyon Review, TriQuarterly, American Poetry Review, Western Humanities Review, Christian Science Monitor, Missouri Review, New England Review, Southern Review, Tar River Poetry, and many others. He has also written several collections of critical essays; he has published translations of Vietnamese and Romanian poetry and has also edited or co-edited several anthologies of war poetry, including Writing Between the Lines: An Anthology on War and Its Social Consequences (1997) and Mountain River: Vietnamese Poetry from the Wars, 1948–1993; A Bilingual Collection (1998). He has won numerous awards for his work, including the Lannan Literary Award for Poetry, the Poet’s Prize from the Academy of American Poets, and two Pushcart Prizes.
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