Twilight
– Dan Bellm
After the men had
eaten, as always, very
fast, and gone—I thought
of them that way, my
father and brother—the men—
not counting myself
as of their kind—the
time became our own, for talks,
for confidences—
I was one of her,
though I could never be, a
deserter in an
open field between
two camps. Even my high school
said on its billboard,
Give us a boy, and
get back a man, a wager
that allowed for no
exceptions, like an
article of war. Gay child
years away from that
lonely evening of
coming out to her at last,
of telling her what
she knew already
and had waited for, I’d sit
in the kitchen with
her after clearing
the meal away, our hands all
but touching, letting
a little peace fall
around us for the evening,
coffee steaming in
two cups, and try at
ways of being grown, with her
as witness, telling
the truth as I could—
which is how, one night, that room
became a minor,
historically
unrecorded battleground
of the Vietnam
War. I think she knew
before it began how she’d
be left standing in
the middle with her
improvised white flag, mother,
peacemaker, when I
said I refused to
go; never mind how, I’d thought
her very presence,
her mysterious
calm, would neutralize any
opposing force, draft
board, father—it’s not,
we know, how that war came to
pass. For years I’d still
call her at that hour,
the work done and the darkness
coming on, even
all those years when Dad
was the one who’d come to the
phone first, and then not
speak to me. Twilight
times with her, when a secret
or what I thought was
one could fall away
beneath her patient regard,
though I would never
manage to heal her
hurts the way she tended mine—
those crossings-over
to evening when the
in-between of every kind
seemed possible, and
doubt came clear, because
she heard, and understood, and
did not turn away.
–
Big thanks to Alison for curating these poems.
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