and can’t. It gives up, like a bird trying to fly home to a familiar nest

that’s been blown from its tree in a storm. Such sudden change: I’m

an only child now, I suppose, one of those odd creatures Mother

feels so sorry for. How will she ever survive? I can hardly bear

to look at her, contorted with the effort to believe in God

on such a day. No doubt asking herself, Why sing?

Two Languages / Muriel

Two Languages

Muriel

A mighty fortress is our God. Those words

Frank loved so well were written by Martin Luther,

a German. We sang them at the funeral,

though it was probably a German soldier who

killed Frank—can anyone make sense of this?

Who does God belong to, whose mighty fortress

is he, if people sing that hymn in two languages,

and in those same languages defend this war?

Who is the mighty fortress walling in, and who

does it keep out? A hard rain beats against our window

for the third day in a row—making mud out of our garden,

relentless in the way it pounds such questions

home. And where is Ollie now? Why haven’t we

heard from him these past seven weeks?

Muriel, you think too much, Mama says. (Am I

to stop thinking altogether? Would that be more ladylike?)

I have to get out of this house—I go out in the rain,

walk down the road, and meet the mailman. Hello, Muriel,

he says. I have a letter for you—from France. I don’t

even look to see if it’s addressed to me. I tear

it open in the middle of the road, letting the blue

ink smear in the rain: Dear Pa and Ma

and Muriel and Grace, Thank you for the socks

and cookies. This war is bigger than I expected.

I thought I might see Frank over here, but

I don’t know where he is. Do you?

It would be awfully nice to see a familiar face.

Tell Emma I said thank you for her letter.

I don’t have much time to write.

Your son and brother, Ollie.

I sob with the relief of hearing from him.

I know we have to answer. But I won’t be

the one to tell him. Let Mama and Papa

try to find the words—I’d feel like

I was shooting Ollie in the heart

if I wrote this awful truth to him:

You can stop looking.

Frank was killed in action

before you even got there.

Staring at Me / Ollie

Staring at Me

Ollie

night again                     fed myself today

better than last week                                    ouch

Nurse—                                             please tie my shoe

(Frank?                        Where is he?            What happened?)

rat in the trench         ran across my arm            who killed the rat?

black eyes                                 skinny tail                     staring at me

wouldn’t stop                              explosions                     all night

couldn’t sleep                                                               losing

track of time                        how many days         weeks?