Heartland M.I.A.

•

1
He won't come out of his apartment,
my friend's brother, where 'Nam
rages every day and night. Our war.
He's cut off most of the family, the ones
who did the intervention, accusing him
of drinking to self-destruction.

The family prays for a miracle.

2
The man lets his younger brother
pick him up for lunch one Sunday afternoon.
The brother is alarmed that the whites of his eyes
have yellowed, his legs now too weak to walk.

Which brother is more fearful of the sense
of death in the air? Which one expects
a miracle?

3
The brother who is ill
opens his door to a total stranger, a friend
a vet, a friend of Bill W's—a man
who's ridden out his need to drink.

The stranger works a miracle.
(What does he say to the brother? Does he
ask to only touch the hem of your garment?)
No matter. The brother who is ill goes with him
to the V.A., agrees to stay (if only for a day).

The family prays for a miracle.

4
Is it a miracle if you are comforted
by a stranger's love? Is it enough
of a miracle if you recognize that another
has suffered as you, before you die?
Is it a miracle if you are touched by love only
for one day?

5
In the evenings, I walk in my neighborhood.
I, also, pray for miracles.
Pray to let go of my anger at the universe
because miracles didn't arrive on demand.
Pray that if one comes, I'll recognize it.
Such faint Scottish faith. July 4th or 5th,
I stop at the day lilies who glow stain-glass
at sundown, much better than fireworks,
along with wild roses, blue bells. The house
where the P.O.W.-M.I.A. flag still flies—

6
Pray for the P.O.W.s still lost
in the hospital down the river road,
our war, and the soldiers from the new wars,
their wars, which are also ours.