I’m here, Michael, I’m holding your hand.
It’s just the 1MC.
Too loud for sleep, really.
And old addled brains.
And the heat. You think they’d open a window.
It’s just the nurses’ station calling, Michael.
It’s not the klaxon,
It’s not 1945, not the aftermath.
Just nurses, with their nurse tests.
Swimming little vials of your blood.
You’re not far off dying, you know.
They’ll serve you up on that embalmer’s table.
And pour out your blood then.
Great chalices of it –
Thick and black.
Don’t cry – you were good soldiering men then.
And Japan was a far off place,
At 19, you wanted to be hard and cunning,
Your uniform sleeves high cuffed
Above butchers arms, burnt by the sun.
You quit the rum.
You used to fight for those rations; now they’re poison.
You and me, we added up those hard nights together,
Blanketed by soft alcohol sodden sunsets,
Drowning out Hiroshima.
And Honshu Bay.
You steamed in at dusk,
All those sailors leaning in, cracker jacks looking smart,
And quiet amidst clattering deck crews,
Who dropped the thickly painted anchor chains.
They left you at the harbour, trains out of action;
The tracks were buckled in the heat of the blast.
You should have known then what was coming.
A rising sun of a trillion splitting atoms did this,
Broke every thing in sight.
And us.
It was a matter of time.
Mary’s well, by the way – don’t worry.
Beautiful as ever
And thick with dementia.
Like you.
Funny how it cracks open
Those tombs.
In your brain.
The sun shines in and you know you’re done.
She still loves you, you know.
She always has.
In spite of who you were;
Sober Sundays she called them – that was her joking.
Hell.
You sat there round that table
With a lovely roast
And not a drop anywhere
To be found.
And you had to talk.
Mary.
She saved you, you know.
The table linens just so,
Ready to forgive you for what I don’t know,
Her love for you pressed into lace cloth.
Why did you have to start, though?
About the burnt bodies over dinner
Piled up like
Barbecues?
You said they were steaming. That’s what you said.
Anyway, the thing was done by 1946.
You were just the clean up crew.
The very last of the regiment,
You remember it all, Michael.
How could you forget?
It’s okay. This is my hand – right here.
Mary will understand
If you die.
They keep the lights on so bright,
You can hardly sleep.
You keep saying that.
You “carried out orders”.
So you buried their dead.
You should never have left Port Douglas,
What were you thinking?
I know you dream about it.
That tidy tower of crackling blistered flesh
Neatly pyred high; it was still warm when you got there.
The fruit of a white hot fiery flower;
A parting gift from that little angel
‘Enola Gay’.
Time to go, Michael.
You prayed for mercy, so here we are,
You prayed for the enemy (I knew you would).
And you thought I’d take sides.
But you were wrong. I loved you all the same.
Rob Densmore (2019)
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