Standing on the beach, the man’s eyes are fixed on the horizon. The ocean wind roars mists of grief.
oftentimes the high tide and the ebb
bring up secrets from the sea bottom
The man wants to be alone, zigzag memories weighing heavy on his heart.
the two shrapnels are still out there
one was operated from his chest in Raleigh
expertly done sterile conditions
the other stuck out in the shoulder
of a bearded savage long dead
and the man used his bayonet
to remove it for memento
The man keeps going back to the beach every evening; the pieces might wash ashore.
the waves always bring plenty
but the two metals remain
deformed and content where they are
amnesiac resting carefree
forgotten are the cries of the wounded
many never made it home
Then one evening an old fisherman tells the man, you are quiet, sir, seem disturbed inside.
once true belief overcomes sorrow
dark memories fade
the soul is freed
and you’ll open to the world
again
Quite a philosopher, the man thinks, or Sunday school teacher. Might have a point, though.
the man walks back to his car
the night sets in
the moon takes over the sky
and the yoke is lifted
Back home, the man takes stock.
he did the right thing
when he hurled the shrapnels in the Atlantic
and now both stay put there
brine cleanses all stains
Two shrapnels, two savages. One savage fought on the wrong side, the other savage fought on the other wrong side.