A poem from my new (draft) book of poems, Brown Studies
Sunday Soldiers
In memory of Jake Adam York, poet
(‘Sunday Soldiers’ was Civil War slang for unsuitable soldiers)
1.We drive from Auburn to Columbus
Sunday march to church
He sits in the back seat and studies
My earmarked copy of Descartes’ Meditations
“What a marvelous book! I want
To clap my hands after every sentence!”
2. Beside me, working for breath
Is his wife, her head pulled
Toward her feet by Parkinson’s
Cramping her lungs
Her whole body
Making a fist
Against her will
3. She whispers the Preparation for Confession:
Purity of heart is to will one thing
We pass the site of a Sunday morning
Flea market, a makeshift booth
Flies a Confederate flag
He sees it, crosses himself,
Notices me watching
In the rearview mirror
“It’s the flag of my country!”
4. So it is, although he is not so aged
That he can remember that country,
Yet he commemorates it, venerates it,
Notes often that his country died game
Under the heels of well shod Blue Bellies
5. What am I to say? He is a saint,
An exemplar–in every way
But this way
May a saint be a Grey Back,
May he venerate the South, that South,
Without damning himself,
Rendering his soul shoddy?
6. Driving the car,
Meditating on David—and Bathsheba
On Moses—and the rock
On David contrite, forced to leave
Building the Temple to others,
On Moses abashed, on the mountain
Overlooking the Promised Land
7. Driving the car west
Meditating on North and South
Meditating on right and wrong,
Meditating on vision and blindness
And their confederacy in the heart,
–In his heart, in my heart, in your heart:
We venerate hateful flags,
We are all Sunday Soldiers