Poetry by Hannah Peterson

Poetry by Hannah PetersonDesign by Tori Leavitt

Winding over and across Geneva like a permanent jagged

scar,past the gas station where you sold cold coffee, Marlboro,

Bubble Yum bubble gum, corndogs and bottled Diet Coke,

freight trains glide smoothly through town in dark silence.

Following a rusty river of ribbon across our awakening valley,

lopsided stitches lead graffitied cars to the California coast.

Through prickly hair titanium tracks unite your broken skin;

your skull becomes a station for a train with no destination.

Your eyes were green as you sat behind the chipped counter.

Happiness hadn’t yet faded away into the blur of endless days,

and there you spent the better part of an entire year waiting.

You weren’t hired for your smile, gentle face, friendly charm,

your Herculean body (though in some places it’s still held together

by pins and rods precisely placed during games of Operation),

but for your college level math skills and lack of criminal record.

They were gray as the recruiter told you it’d be yet another month;

a storm raged inside against the grim windows of your eyes.

The pewter sky is filled with friction.

Dry air moves through the space between heaven and earth;

sparks of purple lightning crash into rain filled clouds.

Flickering light filters through the cracks illuminating empty fields.

Thunder follows, beating rhythmically like a thousand drums.

Wind whistles between swaying weeds.

Then silence.

I am a United States Sailor.

In a room of red, white, blue and stars,

I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America and I will obey the orders of those appointed over me.

arm raised, you swore an oath of allegiance.

I represent the fighting spirit of the Navy and those who have gone before me to defend freedom and democracy around the world.

Pain was hidden beneath a façade

I proudly serve my country’s Navy combat team with Honor, Cour-age and Commitment.

of encouraging smiles and cheerful goodbyes.

I am committed to excellence and the fair treatment of all.

You stand with the Chicago skyline, spine straight as a pla

The black and tan uniform is stiff from lemon spray starch;

each button, a face with only eyes, stares with indifference.

For the first time in years you are actually and truly smiling;

your melon head and Dumbo ears reassure me that it’s you.

It’s not just a crack in your face, like the crack in your head

fifteen untidy staples, more or less, you’re still in one piece.

The photograph says it all, our lives have forever changed.

The roads are silent as purple light spills over the horizon

into the spaces between parking garages and office buildings.

It creeps slowly towards the Pacific shoreline

waking sleeping bodies from city benches.

The working-class walk the streets,

cheap coffee in one hand,

pride in the other,

crumpled into a fist.

Shoulders slump under the weight of another day.

Only a few miles away a group of men sit shoulder to shoulder,

in wet, grainy sand, eye lids drooping from utter exhaustion,

watching the sun rise after having just watched the sun set.

It’s the breaking out of a hellish week.

It’s Sunday night Breakout in Coronado:

M-60 machine gun blanks explode overhead.

The sound constricts his gut,

erratic thumping fills the cavity of his chest.

It has barely begun and

exhaustion presses heavily against his eyelids:

there will be no rest for the weary,

or at least not until Thursday.

Running back and forth and back and forth

from sand to surf becomes too much for some,

and their numbers quickly dwindle.

Grains of sand become shards of glass,

cold water burns against even colder skin.

Forty-eight sleepless hours cause

hallucinations of fish swimming in the sky.

is internal mantra is, Not dead yet, can’t quit.

Not dead yet, can’t quit.

He chooses to endure.

Arms bring me in so tightly I feel the drumming of his heart;

As jagged as I am, we fit together like two unchangeable pieces.

Our day of gratitude began before the sun saw the ocean.

We chased familiar Golden Arches in downtown San Diego,

only to realize Ronald McDonald was a man of compassion;

there wasn’t a single drive thru open on Turkey Day.

The same couldn’t be said about Del Taco down the street:

twenty-four/seven service. God bless America.

Four extra-stuffed burritos for my starved brother,

chocolate shakes for the rest of us, his younger siblings.

Slurping and laughing woke the sun from her slumber;

Yellow light splashed happily into chilly California.

It filled the car window and sunk deeply into my bones.

On busy Orange Avenue on Coronado Island,

hidden away, tucked into a line of street shops,

we find Island Barber, timeless and authentic.

Catering specifically to Navy SEALs and recruits.

“Phase up,” my brother says as he slides into

a maroon chair behind a large tattooed man.

The steady hum an electric razor takes away all

that was left of his stubbly brown hair.

Benjamin, our burly sixteen year old brother,

watches eagerly and soon asks for his own

“Phase up,” and another man quickly obliges.

Ben’s mop of black hair disappears.

When all the excess hair is brushed away,

they stand side by side and pose for a photo.

I look down at the image I’ve just captured:

Ben is all smiles and Zack scowls into the camera.

They’re so identical but so completely different.

The two wrestle for a moment before walking out.

Zack hoots as Ben clumsily throws a sucker punch.

We all laugh and find ourselves back on the street.

It’s a seemingly normal moment but my heart sinks

like the sun brilliant golden sun into the Pacific;

I’m reminded that’s time to say goodbye again.

I hold my brothers closely as the darkness settles.