Dr.
Walcott
He
pulls a yellow pencil from his strawberry locks
and
taps it on the side of his glass, a syncopation,
silence
where a name should be.
Wednesdays,
sessions once a week, Tell
me where you are, and when, Eddie I'm
lost at dawn beside the signal trailer Dr.
Walcott Eddie
There’s
a young boy in the thicket on the bluff
I
save him for the end of the day,
he
demands too much, he leaves
nothing
for my other patients.
there
is no 'here and now' between us.
The
good doctor turns the pages in her binder
and
makes a note of the name of the river.
in
the Mekong Delta where landmines
lie
beneath the footpath to the village.
A
name, I need a name and a time,
is
that too much to ask?
tell
me, do the voices have names?
I
sit on the edge of the couch
and
pull the flask from my lapel.
I
stiffen my coke with light, sweet rum.
between
the footpath to the village and the slow brown river.
I
call to my gunners for enfilade onto the bluff.
Dr.
Walcott
There
are tattoos on his forearm and a scar
on
the back of his hand. I lean forward
and
place my hand on the scar.
I
reach for the flask on the table between us
and
spike my tea with light sweet rum.
Eddie
The
scent of that place, in my hair, on my skin,
it
doesn't wash, the water buffalo in the shoals
of
the slow brown river, the hutch on the footpath to the village,
she
stands at the door, gray tea and a smoke,
I
breathe it in, I bring it home,
how
dare I? how dare I not?