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Description

    Facing It

   My black face fades,

     hiding inside the black granite.

     I said I wouldn't

     dammit: No tears.

     I'm stone. I'm flesh.

     My clouded reflection eyes me

     like a bird of prey, the profile of night

     slanted against morning. I turn

     this way—the stone lets me go.

     I turn that way—I'm inside

     the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

     again, depending on the light

     to make a difference.

     I go down the 58,022 names,

     half-expecting to find

     my own in letters like smoke.

     I touch the name Andrew Johnson;

     I see the booby trap's white flash.

     Names shimmer on a woman's blouse

     but when she walks away

     the names stay on the wall.

     Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's

     wings cutting across my stare.

     The sky. A plane in the sky.

     A white vet's image floats

     closer to me, then his pale eyes

     look through mine. I'm a window.

     He's lost his right arm

     inside the stone. In the black mirror

     a woman’s trying to erase names:
     No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

     ~ Yusef Komunyakaa

    ~ The Art of Noise - A Nation Regrets - www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBMpoa…

Description

    Facing It

   My black face fades,

     hiding inside the black granite.

     I said I wouldn't

     dammit: No tears.

     I'm stone. I'm flesh.

     My clouded reflection eyes me

     like a bird of prey, the profile of night

     slanted against morning. I turn

     this way—the stone lets me go.

     I turn that way—I'm inside

     the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

     again, depending on the light

     to make a difference.

     I go down the 58,022 names,

     half-expecting to find

     my own in letters like smoke.

     I touch the name Andrew Johnson;

     I see the booby trap's white flash.

     Names shimmer on a woman's blouse

     but when she walks away

     the names stay on the wall.

     Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's

     wings cutting across my stare.

     The sky. A plane in the sky.

     A white vet's image floats

     closer to me, then his pale eyes

     look through mine. I'm a window.

     He's lost his right arm

     inside the stone. In the black mirror

     a woman’s trying to erase names:
     No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

     ~ Yusef Komunyakaa

    ~ The Art of Noise - A Nation Regrets - www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBMpoa…