Research: Journals
The Journal
Past Issues
28.1
Glover Davis
Some NamesThey're strolling somewhere in Swope Park
Through littering leaves and heat
From an unseasonable warmth.
The little boy can't sweat.
But his knees wobble as he walks
Because he's only two.
They sit on a bench, hear the caged
Birds chattering in the zoo.
They listen to melancholy tunes
From parked car radios.
A man's head lolls on a bolster
And a clock's green dial glows.
His car door's open and his face
Mottles beneath the bare--
Branch shadows cast like loose snakes through
Interrupted light and air.
Suddenly urgent voices cut
By static make him blink
And raise a pint in a brown sack,
His fingers gray with ink,
From the newspapers splashed around
A bent knee and a foot.
Soon he'll crawl with an M-1
Where clouds of mosquitos eat.
But now in disarray he steps
Onto the curb and tells
The mother "The Japanese have bombed
Pearl Harbor," There are bells
And sirens in the distance, park
Boulevards filling up
With voices buzzing like some bees
Trapped in a paper cup.
A grave look settles on her face.
Her Sunday gaieties
Expunge--mists rising from a pond.
Lists of our casualties
Will be columns in newspapers
And she will know the names
Of some men shrapnel hurt, some blown
Apart, engulfed in flames.
She knew they'd have to ride the train
Home to the west coast.
Soldiers on these trains would trace girl's names
On windows melting frost.
