It was 1963 or 4, summer,
and my father was driving our family
from Ft. Hood to North Carolina in our 56 Buick.
We'd been hearing about Klan attacks, and we knew
Mississippi to be more dangerous than usual.
Dark lay hanging from the trees the way moss did,
and when it moaned light against the windows
that night, my father pulled off the road to sleep.
Noises
that usually woke me from rest afraid of monsters
kept my father awake that night, too,
and I lay in the quiet noticing him listen, learning
that he might not be able always to protect us
from everything and the creatures besides;
perhaps not even from the fury suddenly loud
through my body about his trip from Texas
to settle us home before he would go away
to a place no place in the world
he named Viet Nam. A boy needs a father
with him, I kept thinking, fixed against noise
from the dark.
24 Jan 2019: "Lesson" by Forrest Hamer
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This is a powerful line and shift in the poem, "Dark lay hanging from the trees the way moss did."
ReplyDeleteThere is a loss of innocence and realization for the narrator. He/she realizes that dad isn't superman and, "might not be able always to protect us." I never had to learn that as a kid.
Then to make matters worse pile Vietnam on top of violent racism. We've read some dark poems the last week, but "Lesson" really captures the terror. So many clues in the word choices and tone that this isn't going to end well.