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The book The House of the World has been nominated for the Pulitzer Prize and is now available on Amazon.

The Intersection

After all these years,
from a book,
Charles and I
found the town where Jack died.
Where the iron monsters
of the panzer
dwelt in the woods.
Where the roads intersected
making a cross,
and a general saw his death,
the dying of youth.
Company A advanced,
to rescue the line,
to rescue the centuries,
the old houses,
the hidden children.

It was snowing,
white as the bay,
the frozen ice,
and the black shadow of Prince,
the dog that smiled,
the setter who loved birds,
darting like a phantom
as Jack watched.
His youth a gold dawn,
his cheeks the color of rose.

An intersection,
in polar darkness,
Germans and Americans,
frozen feet,
the hard silver of shells,
and Jack,
and the others,
crawled along the road,
over the snow of the field,
into the fusillade of the tanks.

Laying their iron
on the land,
shards of death,
and the boys died,
the unborn died,
the mothers and fathers died,
while brothers and sisters
slept in their cribs,
and in the cellars,
and the millennium came.

The village lies in snow.
The tanks are smelted,
the graves disappeared.
The intersection,
like a cross,
The general roams the fields,
and Jack plays ball with Prince.
The bay is white,
and I,
and Charles,
look at the map,
and weep in silence.

Published inIndex of all Poems