In a museum of the city once called Saigon, are snapshots. One's been blown up so we can all see it clearly. An American, a young foot soldier, stands on battle pocked land, his helmet at a jaunty tilt, posed for buddies as the Model Grunt. In his left hand he is dangling, like Perseus, a head by its hair. Though not Medusa's, it's his charm for turning fear to stone. Its stare will quiet, awhile, his throbbing chest. The tattered flesh that once dressed collar bones hangs rags from this Vietnamese neck, captured with the soldier's scar of grin by a friend's camera. Is it enough to see it clearly? We all know what to think. The whitewashed walls of a second room show nearly as many black-and-white shots of Cambodian atrocities against Vietnamese. No room's hung with what was done to enemies of Vietnam, just as there's no American museum built to show off snapshots of My Lai. One pronoun keeps at bay our guilt they they they they they they they they. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LAST MAN: A CROCODILE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES TALES OF A WAYSIDE INN: THE THIRD DAY: SCANDERBERG by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE ROSY BOSOM'D HOURS by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE ON CRITICS; IN IMITATION OF ANACREON by MATTHEW PRIOR THE WIDOW'S LAMENT IN SPRINGTIME by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS |