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War's Strange Wound (poem)

By Tim Bagwell

Wearily, I wear my skin reversed-
a strange war wound from the A Shaw Valley,
circa 1969-exposed nerves in constant yelp,

enflamed by bad oxygen, air-of-life machined noxious
by privilege, class, and selfish intent, by
monstrous insatiety and greed.

I gasp for genuine goodwill, simple benevolence,
that crosses the boundary embracing all 'other.'
I know the impossibility; I feel my churning

attachment umbilically nursing my wistfulness.
I demand to go back-stomping feet, angry, sick body and mind-
to unwind the sprockets of evolution,

searching for what was missed the first time
we crept from southern mud
and walked the psychotic path to here.

Defeated by the brokenness of these grand illusions,
I walk mourning upon shards of my crushed naivety
littering psychic hardpan: needle-sharp, piercing, unsweepable.

Can I put my skin on differently? No-
not and still be human.

- Tim Bagwell