The Language of War

By Gloria Hoglund

Thoughts on wars that I have known.

Safe in my townhouse,

  In my upscale neighborhood.

  I hear the words of war

  Fixed to CNN, incapable of hearing or seeing anything else.

It's talk of troops, deploying carriers, and of allies.

It's the language of war.

A lasting image of my childhood,

  A small white square flag trimmed in red and blue.

In the center is a Gold Star.

Hanging in America's front windows.

Gold Star Mothers informing the entire world,

  They had paid the highest price for a world at war.

The Korean War: police action they said.

Did that cause young men to be less dead?

Classmates became men too soon,

    Played the lethal game of war.

The cold war was saving us from communism.

Was it a threat or was it real?

Viet Nam was a war that wasn't won.

No one could or even should.

The nightly news told us lies: counted causalities.

We counted our body bags, in turn we calculated theirs.

We couldn't recognize the enemy.

The government gives a Purple Heart for injury.

A Bronze Star for bravery.

My brother had one for each.

They didn't keep the voices quiet,

  Or tame the demons in his head,

  Or ease the nightmares that visited his bed.

He moved from his bed to the couch.

It was closer to his Johnny Walker Red.

We buried him at 47.

Although he had been a long time dead.

Once again in 2003 it's the language of War.

Spoken just as before.

Gloria Hoglund lives in Plymouth, Minnesota, and attends Gethsemane Episcopal Church in downtown Minneapolis, a progressive, inclusive congregation. She may be reached by email at g.hoglund@att.net .