Charles F. Sorrow, Jr.
Just a name picked
off the wall, like initials
carved in a tree, discovered
years later while out walking
with the dogs—except
that this carving means
you died in a war that
wasn't a war. Your
passage into death, maybe
it was a mercy, maybe
you hadn't wanted
to come home
missing an arm
or with your larynx
torn out. How
many of the other
guys on the wall did
you know, Charles? How
many buddies went
down with you? Or up,
limbs flying out of a bunker
as grenades ripped
into a tick-tack-toe
game, or into a roach
pinched in a paper match.
Maybe
your veins would have run
with horse if you had
returned. Maybe
you'd have lurked behind
yellowed curtains in your small
town in Texas, Iowa,
or New Jersey, coming out only
after the sunset when the
night makes carbine fire flair
like lightning before thunder.
Maybe
there was a dog waiting
at home, droopy-eyed
for you to walk
down the dusty lane
to a grease-slicked garage
where he always used to wait,
chin on paws, for you
to crawl out from under
the Ford Fairlane.
Charles,
the night
before you left,
did you find friends
to tell how scared
you were? Or did you just
get drunk,
tossing beer cans out
the car window, your dog
beside you on the seat
where he was never
allowed to ride
before? Who
would have said
goodbye to you, really
meaning it, really
fearing they might never
see your blond crew cut
bare its cowlick to the sun
again? Who did they give
the tags to? Did they
come home with
or instead of
your body?
Your dad
must have wished
that he'd died instead
in an earlier war
as he dropped
his head to the table,
wept as even
your mother had never
seen him do. He'd
have gotten up from the table,
gone out and climbed on the old
tractor. He'd have plowed
till nearly dawn before an
ache in his shoulders
and the dropping gas gauge
brought him back
to the house.
What does the F
stand for? Frederick?
Did
your mother call you Charles
Frederick when she found
your room in a mess, or
when she caught you
pouring sand into your
little sister's doll? Did
they call you Charlie
to distinguish you from your dad?
Or Chuck? Maybe Chuckie
till at age nine you got
fed up and demanded that you
were Charles and dad
was just Dad.
You are not unknown,
Soldier, and this
is not a tomb. Your name
makes this war
a disgrace, even if yours
were the only name. Especially
if yours
were the only
name.
You stand for yourself
alone, etched in that marble
wall, each letter of your name
a furrow. That's
why your dad plowed
through the night, Charles.
He needed to turn each
furrow to be convinced
that no piece of you
lay bare, awaiting
another pass
of the blade.
Maybe he's gone to his
grave now too. Maybe
there will be
no more Sorrow sons. No
Charles Frederick III
born to choose
between the draft
and Canada. If there were,
how would you advise
him from your place
on the wall?
Would you have wanted
a son of yours
to fight?
What words have you still
for the old dog
who was never quite
the same after he whined
that whole night,
the night
before your tags
came home?
