Brendan Dawson
What Leaders Wonder
His knee strikes the dangerous ground with an inch of cratered sand around the cap
Helmut brass shimmers brighter than all others beaming upward at arms distance
His command to gather the Stripes skips down the chain with reticent vigor
And the Stripes arrive forming a wagon wheel around him
Dirt and sweat clot on dry canvas as hope evaporates on rifles’ ends
His hand motion clears the sand table of what just happened
His single finger extends to pen the plan on which this victory depends
To regain favor, he scratches and scatters with blood in mud
Then with punctuating fists, audacity and tenacity, brave and bold
He orders another attack, Straight down the middle!
The Stripes stare a tunnel of open eyes and closed mouths detouring words
A pause for perception, a rest of reflection, a call for collection, a time of thought
Fissured throats clear a flattering call for imagination
Silence stretches seconds as intuition shifts in smoke
Not to reconsider but to limit any further response
His order is clear and concise, What don’t you understand?
All Stripes rise to attention and groom their disciplined hesitation
To go straight in for a grateful nation that will not remember
Later, at a lull in the gun blasts, he wonders what leaders do
What are the Stripes thinking? and Why do they go?
Bruised Fruit
No one knows, but I’m as bruised as a pretty piece of fruit. That shining one hung on the shelf with a tempting appearance of having it all together. The one that everyone saw distinguished with displayed decor on stippled skin. So fine on the vine but too firm to the touch and rough scented enough to upturn noses and depart emptied hands. Under my packaging, I’ve collected layers of damaged pulp that you will not believe. I was better than others at holding it in but punished for doing the same. I hid the evidence of pokes and squeezes without any indication of the unspoken. And over time, I softened my rind and fooled those fools that missed my bruises. They weighed me against myself, and I faded in short time compared with others’ true beauty. They took me home where I didn’t pass the test of knives applied or survive the slices of side or the spoons’ scooped at my core. I’m tossed aside, disgusted with disregard, discarded here alone, peeled, and frail. The air has blended the bruise lines across my fruit and exposed the lies held inside. Nothing that was me remains about what I truly am now. A bruised piece of fruit.
Brendan Dawson is an American-born poet and writer based in Italy. Brendan writes from his observations while living, working, and traveling abroad. Currently, he is compiling a collection of poetry and short stories from his time serving in the military and journey as an expat.