No, don’t tell her … Just say I need her

in the garden. Somehow I find my way

to my feet. A fly lands on my wrist, I flick

it off, it buzzes round my hair, follows

my slow steps to the gate. Its buzzing drones

a background to my prayer: Please, God, please don’t

let it be true. Don’t let it be Ollie. Anything

but that. God. I beg you. Don’t

let it be true. As I reach the gate, Mama

steps up behind me and speaks one word

with such authority I feel she could hold back

a breaking dam with that one word’s sheer force.

No.

The two of us stand side by side, facing

the young man, who looks from me to Mama,

back to me, down at his feet. He draws

in a deep breath before he asks, Is this the home

of Private Frank L. Norman, Jr.?

I Didn’t Mean / Muriel

I Didn’t Mean

Muriel

Please forgive me, madam. You say Private Norman lives

in the next house down the road? I mean … He turns red, stammers.

That is … where I will find his family? This man stands before us

in his uniform, this is his job, he’s simply asking

for directions in an unfamiliar neighborhood—

but must it be our task to give them? No!

I want no part of this! Don’t tell him, Mama! (Did I

say “anyone but Ollie”? No—I didn’t even think that.

Oh, God, you know I didn’t mean … don’t let this be true.

Please. Send this man back where he came from.)

Now Mama’s quiet voice: Left at the end

of the lane, across the bridge, around a curve

in the road, you’ll see a white house, green shutters.

Her voice quivers: Sir? Is it … as bad as it seems?

He shakes his head and turns away, but we can’t tell

if he’s shaking his head no to Mama’s question

or only (too gently) refusing to answer it.

I can get to the Normans’ house faster than he can

by running along the path, crossing the creek

on the crossing stones. I turn to go, but Mama

catches my elbow, pulls me close,

strokes my hair, and whispers,

Muriel, please stay here

with Grace.

I’ll go.

A Basket / Muriel

A Basket

Muriel

Why were you and Mama both so scared

of that nice man? Grace wants to know.

I can’t think of any way to answer

but the brutal truth. I kneel beside her,

push a strand of hair out of her eyes:

If a soldier is (oh, I want to say “hurt,” but Grace

stares me down) killed in the war (she doesn’t flinch),

they send someone to your house to tell you.

When he stopped here, we thought he was bringing

bad news about Ollie. I’m hoping I can stop