Thirteen

You are only 13,

My grandpa says.

That’s when he tells me to work all day,

In the factory.

Humid,

Feeling others’ sweat.

Overcrowded,

With children being packed in.

Exhausted,

Working hour after hour with no breaks.

You are only a girl,

My grandpa says.

That’s when he tells me to heal the soldiers,

In the hospital.

Gore,

With the blood leaking out of the poorly stitched wound.

Infection,

Due to the lack of sanitization.

Mutilation,

A soldier angered at the act of the amputation,

That saved his life.

You are lucky,

My grandpa says.

But am I truly lucky?

Are any of us?

Doesn’t the war torture us all,

In different ways?

We are at home,

With no brothers,

Fathers,

Husbands,

Sons.

Starving,

Rotting,

Surrounded by death.

Woman at Thirty

You aren’t even fighting,

The voices only I hear tell me.

But I am fighting.

Making food and weapons that kill.

Sweat,

Danger,

Endless.

You are weak,

The voices tell me.

But I volunteered to pick up,

The remnants.

Rubble,

Heavy,

What was left

After destruction by the bomb

Everywhere.

It’s a man’s work,

They tell me.

But who is doing it?

Who is there to do,

When men aren’t there?

Who are the ones,

In the battle at home?

We are.

The ones left,

Told they are powerless,

Making all the difference.

“It’s a man’s work!”

But I am doing it.

And I’ll never stop.

Standing up,

Fighting,

Surrounded by death.

Man at Thirty

You have finally reached home,

To Pennsylvania

In the arms of oak trees

My father tells me.

It is almost worse in my own home than it was in Belleau,

Remembering.

Those lost:

Platoon leader Jeremy,

Best mate Richard,

Childhood enemy Fred.

Those killed:

Young girl with pigtails,

Mother with dark eye-bags,

Old woman searching for her son in the trench.

Those who watched:

The ones left behind,

Later discarded.

You are finished,

My mother tells me.

But war is not over,

I just will not fight again.

Scars too severe,

Too debilitating,

Too permanent.

You survived,

They say.

But did I really?

Is anyone who made it,

Truly alive?

Or are we just not dead yet?

The feeling stays,

And I’m in Belleau all over again.

Trees closing in,

Only available cover being my best mate’s body,

Silent grief waiting for the bullets to take me too,

On guard from all sides,

Surrounded by death.