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Kätzchen · 01-18-2012, 01:27 PM

For Johnny Pole on the Forgotten Beach

by, Anne Sexton

In his tenth July some instinct
taught him to arm the waiting wave,
a giant where its mouth hung open.
He rode on the lip that buoyed him there
and buckled him under. The beach was strung
with children paddling their ages in,
under the glare od noon chipping
its light out. He stood up, anonymous
and straight among them, between
their sand pails and nursery crafts.
The breakers cartwheeled in and over
to puddle their toes and test their perfect
skin. He was my brother, my small
Johnny brother, almost ten. We flopped
down upon a towel to grind the sand
under us and watched the Atlantic sea
move fire, like night sparklers;
and lost our weight in the festival
season. He dreamed, he said, to be
a man designed like a balanced wave...
how someday he would wait, giant and straight.
Johnny, your dream moves summers inside my mind.
He was tall and twenty that July,
but there was no balance to help;
only the shells came straight and even.
This was the first beach of assault;
the odor of death hung in the air
like rotting potatoes, the junkyard
of landing craft waited open and rusting.
The bodies were strung out as if they were
still reaching for each other, where they lay
to blacken, to burst through their perfect
skin. And Johnny Pole was one of them.
He gave in like a small wave, a sudden
hole in his belly and the years all gone
where the Pacific noon chipped its light out.
Like a bean bag, outflung, head loose
and anonymous, he lay. Did the sea move fire
for its battle season? Does he lie there
forever, where his rifle waits, giant
and straight?...I think you die again and live again,
Johnny, each summer that moves inside my mind.

01-18-2012, 01:27 PM	#145
Kätzchen Member How Do You Identify?: Femme Preferred Pronoun?: She, please. Relationship Status: Attached to my granddaughter & chosen friends and family.. Join Date: May 2010 Location: Enjoying life @ home ツ Posts: 16,119 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 29,633 Thanked 33,546 Times in 10,664 Posts Rep Power: 21474868	For Johnny Pole on the Forgotten Beach by, Anne Sexton In his tenth July some instinct taught him to arm the waiting wave, a giant where its mouth hung open. He rode on the lip that buoyed him there and buckled him under. The beach was strung with children paddling their ages in, under the glare od noon chipping its light out. He stood up, anonymous and straight among them, between their sand pails and nursery crafts. The breakers cartwheeled in and over to puddle their toes and test their perfect skin. He was my brother, my small Johnny brother, almost ten. We flopped down upon a towel to grind the sand under us and watched the Atlantic sea move fire, like night sparklers; and lost our weight in the festival season. He dreamed, he said, to be a man designed like a balanced wave... how someday he would wait, giant and straight. Johnny, your dream moves summers inside my mind. He was tall and twenty that July, but there was no balance to help; only the shells came straight and even. This was the first beach of assault; the odor of death hung in the air like rotting potatoes, the junkyard of landing craft waited open and rusting. The bodies were strung out as if they were still reaching for each other, where they lay to blacken, to burst through their perfect skin. And Johnny Pole was one of them. He gave in like a small wave, a sudden hole in his belly and the years all gone where the Pacific noon chipped its light out. Like a bean bag, outflung, head loose and anonymous, he lay. Did the sea move fire for its battle season? Does he lie there forever, where his rifle waits, giant and straight?...I think you die again and live again, Johnny, each summer that moves inside my mind. __________________ “How we treat each other matters,” — US President Barack Obama, while delivering Senator John McCain’s eulogy.