The Bravest Soldier By Mandi Johnson Spring 2004

lullaby ............................................................................................................................ 3 Gatwick ......................................................................................................................... 4 White Crimson ........................................................................................................... 5 The Fall........................................................................................................................... 6 The L ................................................................................................................................. 7 last ballad ................................................................................................................... 8 opal .................................................................................................................................. 9 Snails.............................................................................................................................. 10 Magic sheet ................................................................................................................ 11 Love and alchemy.................................................................................................. 12 Misdirected Peanut Butter and Jelly ........................................................ 13 Alchemy of the godhead ................................................................................. 14 In What World ....................................................................................................... 15 The other side .......................................................................................................... 16 The Bravest Soldier ............................................................................................... 17

lullaby Marching cadences hum, Twinkle Little Star. Diamonds replaced by youthful, curious eyes. Singing her to sleep, I wonder daddy where you are? Vietnamese missiles like auroras dot the sky. She looks up to him from years and miles away. First Calvary horses up above the war so high. Thirty years from now on a September day, the little soldier takes her first battle cry. Medals and declarations driven by pride and shame. Burning napalm fills her mothers womb. At the funeral, Amazing Grace wont sing the same. Twinkling stars drowned by an atomic mushroom. He sings her a lullaby from Phu Loi. Whispers sweet dreams to a thousand years in the future, while pieces of shrapnel decide what they will destroy. Her nightmare is a flashback, held by a suture. Mushu pork and chopsticks never made anyone so proud. Now, shes riding the tricycle that he bought her, and despite the unfriendly homecoming crowd, hats off, hands together, for the sergeants daughter.

Gatwick A tiny baby shedding its placenta was being pushed into a foreign world. Airport security held machine guns. Louis Armstrong played over the PA. What a Wonderful World. Skies of blue and red roses too. It seemed all too ironic. I looked up at a TV monitor. I saw her. She had war in her hair. Bits of it were in her eyes. It was all over her lips. She was just a baby, alone. They carried her lifeless parents, past her on a stretcher. War dripped down her dirty cheeks. An omniscient American newscaster, spoke blankly of the costs of war. I looked up at her, and realized it didnt cost her anything. She was born with it, and too soon would die with it. I took what little life I had packed into my suitcase on wheels, carted it out the door into machine guns firing blankly into the night. bullets looking for the cost of war, more parents, more children. Its a Wonderful World fading with the closing door.

White Crimson Crisp, white sheets grasped the crevices of his body like a pale lover begging for his attention. The bright white sunlight danced on the walls. White noise echoed through the silence. The black dots cried as they were drowned by whiteness seeping through the cracks. Tear stained Kleenex. On the nightstand, a flower vase stood still filled with vague clarity, and porcelain roses wilting. As he awoke the whites of his eyes grew smaller. He noticed the absence when he saw the reflection as it appeared in the mirror, the room an envelope of white, sealed with a crimson lipstick kiss good-bye.

The Fall Curled up on the bed shriveled and wilted. Petals falling to the floor. Weeping, seeping, old life. Once a crimson vivation. Now, a dull red death. He used to caress, water, prune, pay attention. Nowadays he tends to the dandelions, the poison ivy, the weeds. Shes laying in disarray. Leaving petals to fall, one by one. Coming ever closer to non-existence. Each time a little less if what is, isnt anymore. A red rose becomes a stem, leaves, thorns, and soon nothing.

The L I. Each morning I descended from this world to the one below. An ant I crawled into my tunnel, with my own crumb on my back. If it wasnt for the beautiful echoes of street musicians I may have questioned our humanity. II. I had an affair that morning. My eyes met his across the car. Oh, we never touched, but our eyelids introduced ourselves. Our glances kissed passionately. Fleeting away every odd second or two. So no one would catch us.

last ballad As I fold your memories and shut them in a trunk for safe keeping, I smell the mothballs and I think to myself are you doing the same? Or did you throw them away, give them to charity, stuff them in a closet in a coat pocket? This one is a colorful one. The time you signed the hotel register Ziggy Stardust and smiled as you walked away. This ones a little uncomfortable. It has no other description than sadness. Its itchy in the winter. Ill keep it just in case it gets cold. This one doesnt fit anymore, but maybe I will loose weight and it will. This one is my favorite. Its oversized, soft and warm. It smells like a summer breeze in the park, and feels like a hug wrapped around me. Folding, remembering, tears, smiles. Thats the last of it. Amazed it fit in one trunk! Ill squeeze it under the bed, and open it on occasion. If you ever need to borrow one just write, or call, or think.

opal A ghost you stand perched against the kitchen counter. In the early morning hours white boyish underwear smiling with an apple in your hand. Juice dripping down your neck venturing to a place reserved for lips for mine. Your innocent laugh. Your figure fades as I awake from my daydream into my nightmare. Screeching tires, breaking glass, cold, wet pavement warm, red blood I want to forget you! But if I remember maybe I will be able to recollect breath back into your body As well as I can my sin.

Snails You and me, are like snails always shedding our shell. Every couple of months, we pack. Shoving our lives into boxes. Wrap our memories in newspaper careful not to break. Tape shut each moment. Label each instant so we dont forget. We load them into a truck. We wave it goodbye hoping it makes the journey okay like we hope we do. Like two snails, we venture out searching for a new shell. Constantly, we look for the right one. Bitter wind tormenting, beating sun scorching, until we arrive in a distant place. We find a shell, and start to unpack. Even if it doesnt quite fit, Well still be alright. We always are. We commence to unwrap each memory and put it on a shelf. Un-tape each box and make it fit. Making sure to save them, for next time. Maybe someday we will find the right shell, The perfect one! One we can finally call home.

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Magic sheet I used to stretch sheets, across two kitchen chairs, make a tent, and pretend. I was under the stars, in the jungle grass, watching for tigers, and hiding . Then sheets hid a ghost, trying to scare mom, washing our dishes, and laughing. A picnic on a sheet, stolen from my bed, PBJ and milk, Summers past. Last year a perfect toga, made from that sheet, a college masquerade, almost Greek. Now Im under that sheet, but not alone anymore, snuggling with you, in love.

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Love and alchemy By the Life the beginning of things is known, The Life of things is Air, therefore the beginning of things. -The Words of Father Aristeus to his Son You have begun and will end unless I can transform you into gold. keep you in my pocket. veiled in its obscurity. Id take you everywhere, but here. I cant wait to forget you, like a precious coin and find you again in my lint filled pocket. Two weeks from now. Not remembering you, Not regretting you, until I feel you again, at the bottom of the pocket. I will wonder what you are. and there you will be. A gold doubloon nestled like a treasure there. For me to discover Again.

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Misdirected Peanut Butter and Jelly I used to crawl into your crib when you cried so you wouldnt wake them up. We made the best mud pies in the neighborhood. Our chocolate pecan was the envy of all the girls, who used to come from blocks around to see the Crayola masterpieces we put up in the playhouse. Our first gallery showing. We served the best hors d'oeuvres. Powdered peanut butter and jelly from dads army rations. Putting on moms makeup we were so beautiful. Rosy cheeks and rouge smeared lips. Kissing little toilet paper squares to make it perfect. Just like mom. The adventures that we shared. The time I ran away on my tricycle. A band aid, an apple, and our phone number. Set off to change the world. Made it only a block because you told on me. Now, they tell me they cant get you to stay home one night, and boys arent so gross anymore. Youre misdirected I hear. You dont know what you want to do with your life. Youve buried the Barbie dolls in a cemetery. In the attic, and when you run away you forget the band aids. I am too busy still trying to change the world to tell you that I miss you sometimes, and Despite all the imperfection in adulthood, you still put on moms makeup. Youre still beautiful.

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Alchemy of the godhead If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him. -VOLTAIRE God is living in Japan. He owns a salon in Tokyo. God is a platypus, an all consuming fire. God is love. He is an Elvis impersonator. God is bullet, and the gun. God is Jesus Or hes not. God is Buddha Allah, Zeus, Omega. God is God is God is in heaven shaking his earthen snow globe watching us all spin.

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In What World
is that okay? A baby cries, in the night being quieted by a dirty needle. full of, meth, Six months old becoming a toxic Wasteland. In what world do FBI hounds search for a Family. Missing since Valentines day. Shell casings found in their farmhouse. In what world does an elderly woman decide weather to buy diabetes medicine or food, or pay rent. Catholic Bishops brace themselves. Not for the coming of god, the apocalypse, the release of the new Marilyn Manson CD, but for the results of a recent nationwide church sexual abuse study In what world is that okay? Nobody knows this baby, is missing except the new mother who left it, sleeping forever in a dumpster, outside Dennys while she finishes her cheeseburger with extra pickles. I decide where to make line breaks, put punctuation, whether to use bold print, similes, or taboo words like FUCK, while my friend Paul wonders if hell ever make it home alive. Hearing Iraqi gunfire in his sleep. In what world is that okay?

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The other side Sitting by the window fingers sting, lips burn with cold. The voices will not come to the page. They are frozen to the pen. The wind speaks instead, shrilly screaming through the window pane like an enemy soldier. It points a gun to the back of my head forcing me to meet the icy stare of the man in the moon. I am being held hostage by his glare. He tells me what he saw when he was there, on the other side of the world before this night he brought to me. His face was aged by the images, and his lips were chapped by sand. His words chalky and dry. His tears washed away the visible sin. Captivated by the tragedy in his eyes I sat. Held not only by the cold weapon at my head, but by disgusting curiosity Freudian, I awaited his words. Hoping to prescribe Prozac for his sadness. Hoping it was a delusion. His voice was overtaken by screaming children in the night from crude torture chambers while cruel ghosts raped innocence with bloodshed. While Suicide Machines were operating at full production. My ears were eager to shut, as they were licked with bullets. My eyes too were forced like a scene from clockwork orange. Breath choked by Serin gas seeping into my night like drops of dew. A prisoner of war. I listened as the sun rose, eager to tell me what it saw on the other side of the world.

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The Bravest Soldier He was the bravest soldier of all. He didnt carry a gun, or give orders. He carried the most powerful weapon of all. He took the pictures. When the bulb fired, it shot everything! No, Everything! The light captured it all. A moment in time became a POW. The quick shot engulfed every truth, and pulled it onto the film, so that it could be exposed later. It took in death, horror, and infliction spreading it like fire through the jungle across a glossy 5x7 print. The bullets never reached the mainland, but the pictures did, and the tears that followed them flooded the homeland soil. Long after the bullets has stopped. The pictures still stared still wounded, still fought a war. Long after the bravest soldier died.

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