Of The Brave

by BC Williams Sat 28 May 2011, 8:42 pm

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PREFACE: This is a piece I wrote a few years ago hoping the Atlantic Monthly would except it for publication. They didn't, and it could be it was just too deep for the time, though the meaning might be clearer now in 2011. Funny thing though; I began thinking differently and writing differently after reading some of the pieces they were publishing. This piece is symbolic and cryptic in language . . . the Atlantic loves stuff like that. They just didn't love this one.

Of the Brave

A strong wind rode
fables laced with capricious reasoning,
and many dreamed they listened
with their rubber hearts full blast.

We filed two by two into cubby holes -
arms, heads, youthful thighs,
eyes round as moonbeams crushed flat.
We listened intently, heard our thirsting.

We saw innocence shimmy over big cliffs
and drown at sides of war wings
bound for places wool gatherers parish.
We had fallen into a den of the brave.

Horses heads passed on trolley cars so close
our noses were bloodied.
We held out boldly our fingers but it was only a mirage.
There was no beginning, there was no end.

And we maneuvered stealthily,
scurrying around street corners,
crashing into corner bars
ordering snifters of gall.

Then the strong wind fell
and we, like hurdles of crisp bamboo,
held those corners taking shots unto death.

Masses blushed at us- the brave;
the bruised cadavers resting in beaten boxes,
grim footsloggers knocking on doors of dreams -
toes tagged, clothed in government issued shrouds.

© Sept 2006 by BC Williams

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