Poetry, Part Fifty-one

I am currently at my aunt's home in CA, to drive her and her brother-in-law and sister-in-law to the veterans cemetery where her husband, who fought in WWII, and her son, who was in the Air Force during the Vietnam War era, are buried. The cemetery in the central valley of California provides a Memorial service each year before she takes artificial flowers and small American flags to place upon their grave stones. The cemetery is fairly new and beautiful, set against barren, windy hillsides. The services are provided by local veterans groups and attended by families of the dead.

This is the third year that I have been here to accompany my aunt to the cemetery and attend these services. I always stand when they ask for those who served to rise and be recognized as honored veterans. Even though I was forced to resign, they were never able to take those years of my service from me even when they took away my dignity and my self-respect and my career. I now hope that this will be the last year that I will attend while gay and lesbian service members are forced to hide who they are or fear exposure, investigation, and automatic discharge. Let this be the last year for all of that.

Conduct

We have but one point
of forced return
like swallows who have
in their congested valley
no private flight.

So I have remembered the many retreats
of people
with whom we have, at times,
lost understanding.
For reasons long picked of sense,
where all exposed are soon disgraced,
where justice is scaled like fish
for market,
for bait,
fed to the migration schooled each spring.

Always the talents of the fishermen
returned to the nets to pick us clean;
obsessed with tides
and the temperature of policies
as a precaution,
cleansing the clear waters
where we squirm.

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