Brandon Marlon is a writer from Ottawa, Canada. He received his B.A. in Drama & English from the University of Toronto and his M.A. in English from the University of Victoria. His poetry was awarded the Harry Hoyt Lacey Prize in Poetry (Fall 2015), and his writing has been published in 275+ publications in 30 countries. www.brandonmarlon.com
Remembrance
Soldier, solitary in the gloom of your room
with a .45 fixed under your chin, stand down.
Soldier, replace the safety where it belongs.
Soldier, repatriated yet still war’s prisoner, cease fire.
Soldier, your next battle has begun, with the enemy within.
Soldier, buckling under the weight of memory,
lost in trauma and grief, haunted and hurting,
burdened with guilt, weary of life, persevere
through soldier’s heart, shell shock, combat fatigue.
Soldier, whose mind reels on endless replay, respire.
Soldier, let the noise and imagery flash by; these too shall pass.
Soldier, sob as much as you need to then some more;
let your tears flow like fine wine from its bottle.
Soldier, for whom the hours lour, outpour your pain
in words and purge all that consumes you.
Soldier, wounded warrior, your loved ones are nearby
and your neighbors stand by you.
Lean on your brothers- and sisters-in-arms, soldier;
they know best what you went through.
Soldier, let your pets save you; they sense your sorrow.
Soldier, fighting for survival, never, never, never surrender.
You may not get closure, soldier, but you will find peace.
Soldier, take this hand, all these hands, and rise to attention,
that together we might amputate the anguish.
Soldier, those who sent you salute you.
Soldier, we honor your service and sacrifice.
Soldier, remember that you are unforgotten.
At ease, soldier. At ease.
Transit
The train rumbles and wends across the city center
at a precipitate pace, its bowels clogged
by reticent commuters lost in private thoughts
of to-dos, aches, deadlines, sleep, debts, losses,
things to have said in long-gone conversations.
Then without warning she steps off the platform
onto my rail car and sits opposite me, wearing red,
redolent of lavender, a conspicuous birthmark
complementing lips puckered and glossed, skintight
nylons catching my eye as she crosses her legs
and, succumbing to her suasive ways, I lose my train
of thought to imagine what her name is and who she is;
what it would feel like to have her body,
prone or supine, pressed against mine;
the expression on her face when her toes reach her ears;
the pitch of her panting as we climax in tandem.
I bypass my stop by seven or eight hopeful of a glance,
a connection transitory or lifelong, and when she alights
I gulp sour sighs, detesting the tang of what if.