Research: Journals
The Journal
Issue 32.2
Home is the Sailor
Christopher Howell
Rounding the corner, sea bag heavy
on my shoulder, I was
every man who ever came home
from war. And, indeed, they-
gathered at the big front window-
saw me knowing this, taking on the joy
of the Roman legionnaire when, after 25 years
on the ramparts in Gaul, the farm
came into view and the wife
and grown children ran speechless
toward him up the road.
I had done my duty, so to speak.
The great engines soaked in blood
slept in the distance
of my shoes. An iron encirclement
left the houses of my fingers
and hair and I entered the shadows
of strangers whose language was tinsel
and glass goblets overflowing, whose soft hands
touched me like morning in another time.
Birdsong and plums opened their invisible books for me
who had become that no one
standing beside himself
while history shook its head.
Give me a moment, I said, give me
a hand with this bag of voices and bones.
I didn't care
what mattered. All through my body, in the dark
totality of my life, a confederate soldier
sat down by the fire
and slept.
