My father can talk to him but that’s about it –
a guy you could sit beside in a bar and never know
he’s picturing the knife in his boot
in your throat because you remind him
people exist and make noise – he is what war does
to some, a twitch covered in skin – ….
I’m beginning to see a pattern in some of these poems. They start out with a very intimate focus – a father, a mother, a child – make us feel at home, then introduce subject matter that isn’t home at all – the child is sick, the father is talking to someone desperately ill – before broadening to show how these tragedies are embedded in a larger context, and how we so often take that context for granted without realizing the damage below our line of sight. Then the poems come in again, close enough to break our hearts by the last line.
It’s a very short poem, no mystery, no obscure rhetoric to hide its truth: some people, like the speaker’s uncle, are ruined by war in a way that can’t be fixed. I suspect it’s always been like that; maybe we’re just more aware of it now. People in suits in air-conditioned clean rooms surrounded by security guards advocating send people – some of whom only a few months or years ago were children too young to drink or sign contracts – to a strange country where their lives will be in danger for months or years.
The poem poses a solution:
certainly for presidents and senators a foxhole
should be required – some bleeding – a bit
of brain in their coffee – but I’m a poet,
you can excuse anything I say as antithetical
to reason – ….
I’m not sure that’s so antithetical to reason. Then again, I think the universal draft is the best anti-war mechanism we have, so I’m a bit antithetical to reason myself.
When I saw Hicok’s name, I had the impression of a somewhat lighthearted poet. I looked up those poems of his I’ve read. His Pushcart winner from last year, I described as “whimsical.” From two years ago, “sad but hilarious”. There’s no whimsy here. It’s straight-out indictment, a song of anger and mourning.