Remembering green
In third grade my parents supported me:
my inability to fold myself into the position
called "Indian style" was accommodated;
I did not have to go on long walks in the sun
that were liable to make me nauseated and red;
I was the only one in thirty children
who would not pledge allegiance,
who was not under God.
We wrote letters to men--if there were women,
I don't remember--men who were
fighting somewhere under a sun that might
make them nauseated and red, they were
bravely far from home defending a tiny country
from a bad man who did bad things. We sent
letters and they sent MREs. Except
they weren't really fighting and no one told us
why they were brave, and the bad things
that the bad man did were never explained.
I never asked. It seemed reasonable
to glue cards together from construction paper,
to write my name in crayon at the bottom
and send my best wishes to people
I didn't understand and make remarks about
the army with all the scorn a 9-year-old
can hold. Men with camouflage and guns
are a separate thing from MREs that come
in the mail. Just add water. Just add water
and the desert turns to green.