A Façade of Light
Early summer, Before the wet Korean heat drowned us, My section participated In the annual show of force, A parade of Humvees and Paladins, Yet there were no cheers or children Waving as we made our way through the broken streets. We made it to “the field,” More like a loose gravel path With cemented 100-foot pads Nestled in the lull of a neighboring mountainside. When we arrived, metallic beacons erected A forest of green amongst cement and gravel. In the murmurs before metal rained, We smoked butts and played who’s closest To the encapsulating wire fence. My closest friend, Bulger, said, I wonder why this is here? Nudging towards the fence That looked like it worked At a max security prison on the weekends. I couldn't help but wonder whose existence was restricted. This would be the brushstroke of anxiety that would paint the following days. Through our group’s murmurs, A piercing sound erupts: FIRE MISSION!! We all sprint to our battle stations. Paladins rooted like Great Redwoods Purged 155mm shells into the heavens. Their departure shocked the earth Like a lone fallen tree. The noise of metal, Now becoming meteor, Rips through the valley below And the adjacent mountain. Underneath the adjacent cratered hillside, A small village sat unprovoked, A short walk from where we shoveled our metal. Night ops: FIRE MISSION!! I watch the illum rounds Dance with the horizon Until the stars cut in. I drift into the opaque. I think about how all day Villagers must hear The screaming of falling shells. All night they must see illumination rounds’ light Consume every bit of still darkness Sheet metal and plywood huts feebly provide. How many children must have wished upon These illuminating stars? How many wishes dissipated Under this façade of light? After a few days of fire, the villagers Stormed our now closed gates. Bulger was on the first gate guard shift. I caught up to him later, and he told me They reached through the wire to grab His body, and when they couldn’t, he was spat on. He continued on about utter mayhem, How the police came and swatted away The villagers like houseflies. I felt like Bulger was spat on For all of us that day.
Jacob Reisinger is a senior at the University of Toledo in Toledo, Ohio; he is pursuing a degree in English Creative Writing. While his academic research primarily focuses on veteran literature and poetry, he enjoys spending time with his siblings and reading at Carlson Library.
The Albion Review 