Omaha Beach / The Children Who Were Chosen
Two Poems
Omaha Beach
The ramp went down, and the brute din of war
Was like a furnace. Some collective will
Drew us into the water, and the air
Bloomed with sour bullets. They sank their roots in me
As if I were a rotted corpse. I fell,
And I was drowning in a sea of blood.
Then, two hands bore me up the beach, they jabbed
My arm with morphine, and I did not see his face.
At the reunions, all the strangers who
Were brothers on that day would strip their sleeves,
And I would ask my question, but he’s dead,
Or else we’re both anonymous, forever.
I see him now in everyone, as if
Absorbed into the body of the remnant.
Have Mercy on the Children Who Were Chosen
Have mercy on the children who were chosen;
For what was given can be given back.
Have mercy on the family of spare parts
Assembled by a judge with stamp and pen.
We look with longing on the accidents:
On fumbling teenagers who lose their heads,
On babies kept in panic and despair,
On fate; on flesh and blood with flesh and blood.
See also: “With complete disregard for his own safety”.
More poetry on Mostly Aesthetics: American Independence in Verse; Interviews With Vampires.
“Omaha Beach” originally appeared at The Society for Classical Poets.
“Have Mercy on the Children Who Were Chosen” originally appeared in Poems for Persons of Interest; thanks to Alex Rettie and Sarah Adeyemo.