My black face fades,
Hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
Dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
Like a bird of prey, the profile of night
Slanted against morning. I turn
This way--the stone lets me go.
I turn that way--I'm inside
The Vietnam Veterans Memorial
Again, depending on the light
To make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
Half-expecting to find
My own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
But when she walks away
The names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
Wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
Closer to me, then his pale eyes
Look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
Inside the stone. In the black mirror
A woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.