Issue 3… John Davis

Two Poems
by John Davis

Stationed in Yorktown

To run among the ghosts of soldiers

who knelt on deerskins knelt

on dirt and struck the air with flintlock

muskets begging it to open to admit them

as they were, young grunts young as I

wanting the war to be done. Here the tunnels

of air to run through. Here the smell of smoke.

Here the birth of deaths. Legs like mine

wore the body. The ballast they carried

like mine was the heavy snow of the heart.

What didn’t shiver was the hum of home,

voices there, wind in night trees, smells

of jasmine, squish of toes in clover, branches

lit in late night. Who doesn’t want to return

to the song they were born in. Keep running

and carry the cold. Wind through the trees

is the flute calling us home.

 

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Inspection
Editor’s note: JG is short for Lieutenant Junior Grade (LTJG), the second lowest commissioned officer in the U.S. Coast Guard.

Are you wearing a wig?

There’s a point in the distance where the river
meets itself. The river thinks ahead. The water
streams through me, full-flush of guilt.
There’s a current in my breath as I inhale
to say yes when Lamet beside me says no.

Son, are you leveling with me? the JG spits.

No sir Lamet blushes. His wig, bushy-brown,
flops on his neck. Adrenaline surges
through me, itches my neck. Will my
bobby pins fall out? Will my wig cap
droop like Grandmother’s stockings?

I’ve known for a long time you’re wearing a wig.

It’s Lamet’s first time wearing a short-hair wig.
I’ve been wearing mine for months. My real hair
falls to my shoulders, warms my ears.
The JG can’t remember my name
since I don’t wear a nametag.

Are you a wannabe girl, Lamet? Get a haircut.

The JG’s mustache wobbles before he speaks.
We call him Miss Prissy. We know he wears
sock garters to show his magnificent blue socks
when he sits, crosses his legs. Never a shirt stain.
Always a flick of red hair under his hat.

Where’s your National Defense Medal?

Standing still, I’m floating away from this whirlpool–
a duck riding downstream bobbing around rocks
and the whoosh of words that hiss like waterfalls.
The JG steps into me. Expensive aftershave.
He snorts and fingers my neck.

 

 John Davis is the author of Gigs and The Reservist. His work has appeared in DMQ Review, Iron Horse Literary Review, Terrain.org and other publications. He is a retired high-school teacher and plays in blues and rock-and-roll bands. He lives on an island in the Salish Sea near Seattle, Washington in the United States.

Click for our interview with John Davis.

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