Window on the world
by Jaime Lee Moyer



They brought him home on a rare day when
rain fell, silver drops writhing like mercury
on dust lying thick as snow over the walkway,
home to a house I couldn't find the courage
to vacate, balanced on the razor's edge of
memory and pain at what he'd become, the landscape
in my heart as desolate as our ravaged world.

His face was the same, laugh lines and shadows
where they'd always been, an integral part of
who he was before the powers that be did all
they could to keep him alive, although he never
laughs now, circuits a poor excuse to carry the spark
that used to shine in his eyes, a man cobbled together
with titanium so they could claim one less failure.

They say that he'll be fine, I need to give him time,
let the man inside their machine remember all of what
he used to be, that soon he'll forget the horrors of all
he saw, forget what they made him do in the name of duty,
a hero salvaging humanity's wounded pride, reassuring me
that I won't always wake in the dark, silence thick as the dust
coating our window on the world, to find him gone.

 

About the Author:

Jaime lives next to a river in the wilds of Ohio. She writes books and stories as well as poetry, assisted by two warrior kittens who help her chase the Muse. In her spare time she is an Associate Editor for Ideomancer Speculative Fiction. On most days, she can honestly say life is good.

Her poetry has appeared in Kenoma, Between Kisses, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, Strong Verse and Raven Electrick, and she has work forthcoming in Star*Line, Dreams and Nightmares, Illumen and Aeon Speculative Fiction.


Poem 2005 Jaime Lee Moyer. Painting by Jan Vermeer, circa 1657.