though I knew he wasn’t really there,
he was. We would talk about life—
his, mine. Ours, together. We would
plan. Remember. Commiserate.
When he touched me, my skin grew
warm. When he kissed me, he wetted
my lips. When he made love to me,
orgasm came easily. And it was real.
The nightmare was waking up, sure
he was there, and not finding him
beside me. When he finally went
off to Afghanistan, the dreams grew
scarier. Sometimes when he came
to me, he would describe a kill
in all its gore and glory. Sometimes,
he would show me the shrapnel-
strewn landscape. Once in a while,
when he talked, his voice sounded
foreign. And on more than one occasion,
he tried to kiss me without a mouth,
because he was missing half of his face.
THAT IMAGE
Must have come from one of the many
video clips I watched about the war.
Okay, it wasn’t a brilliant thing to do,
but I wanted to know what he would
be facing in Helmand Province.
It became something of an obsession.
Truthfully, as Cole’s third deployment
approached, I was more afraid than
ever before. Afghanistan wasn’t Iraq.
Fed by al Qaeda, the Taliban claimed
much of the country, teaming with
the drug trade in the poppy-rich land.
There was more money there, more
resources, and a deep-seated hatred
of the American infidels. Used to war-
fare and shifts of power, the Afghan
farmers simply went with the flow,
tending their crops and pretending
friendship to whomever wandered
their fields with weapons. Charged
with identifying insurgents, detaining
or removing them, American soldiers
might have been better equipped
than their enemies. But they were dying.
WE DIDN’T KNOW IT THEN
Of course, but 2010 would prove
to be the most deadly of the war
up until that point. All I knew in
the few months leading up to
Cole’s deployment was the casualty
counts were high. Rising. President
Obama had ordered thousands more
troops into the region. Cole was one
of those troops. And he was raring
to go. I flew to Hawaii to say good-bye.
He could only give me a few hours.
And, though I understood, it made
me incredibly sad. Made me angry,
because his excitement eclipsed
my disappointment. He was leaving,
and I didn’t want to let him go. I stood
glued to him, kissing him as if I had
some sort of insider knowledge
that he would not return all in one
piece. He dismissed my fear.
How many times must I promise
that I will always come home
to you? I love you. And that’s
a magical force field, all around me.
But then he had to go. When he tore
himself out of my arms, I thought
I heard the chink of a new crack
in our plaster. Splintering hope.
THE CHASM WIDENED
With the dearth of communication.
The battalion was split by company,
and moved to different operating bases
within the Helmand Province.
Conditions, according to the battalion
newsletter, were “spartan,” computers
only available at a few locations. The men
would rotate between them, and a satellite
phone would get passed around, but
we were told to expect long periods
without hearing from our soldiers.
On top of that, “River City” often denied
communication. This happened when
a secret operation was in the works,
or if there was a casualty, to allow
time for the family to be notified
before the press could get wind of it.
And there were casualties, and the press
let us know, sometimes with photos
of flag-draped coffins. As I finished
my senior year, my BA mattered
a whole lot less to me than knowing
I wouldn’t spend an afternoon
in Arlington National Cemetery,
mourning for my beloved Marine.
I SPENT A LOT OF JUNE
Combing the desert, as if navigating
California’s heat-shimmering sand
could somehow bring me closer
to Cole. I even borrowed his truck
from Uncle Jack, who seemed to
understand my growing obsession.
I did not chase rabbits, though
they were plentiful enough. I did
pick late wildflowers, pre-annual
wilt. Determined to avoid any echo
of the summer before—no Jaden-
type temptation—I didn’t go out
much. In fact, I became quite
the hermit. My only real human
contact was at my job, where
most of that was with young kids,
who I did not have to worry about
crushing on. I did take a special
interest in one little girl. Soleil
was extremely quiet, and had a hard
time making eye contact. It took a lot
of work, but when I won enough
trust to be able to push her on
the swings, it felt like a real victory.
COLE FINALLY CAUGHT UP
With me at home, via sat phone.
It had been some seven weeks
since I’d heard a word, and when
the call finally came, the words
I heard were disturbing. Not:
The Afghani people are so happy
we’re here. They say they’ll feel
safer with us patrolling their fields.
More like: Bastards can’t even
thank us for keeping their women
and kids safe. Probably wish
they’d die so they don’t have to
feed them. I’m not allowed to tell
you what all kind of patrols we’re
doing. Suffice it to say we’ve wiped
our fair share of Taliban assholes
off the face of the earth. Praise Allah.
Lost a good buddy last week, though.
Motherfucking IED. I swear I’ll get
the guy who did it and if not him,
his brother or father or fucking
grandfather. Sight. Lock in. BLAM!
Oops, there goes another hajji head.
Hey. I have to go. Keep the home
fires burning. I love you, Ash.
And he was gone. The voice
of a ghost. I didn’t even get to tell
him I loved him, too. So I sent that
off in a letter. Hoped it reached him.
CLOSE TO MORNING
A noise brought me up out of sleep.
Was it a door? My bedroom door?
I couldn’t quite tell. Wasn’t exactly
awake. So I stayed very still. In
the silence came the whisper
of feet. “Who’s there?” I asked,
but when I tried to see, the room
was empty except for the sound
of footsteps, soft and sinking into
the carpet. I wanted to move but
crushing fear kept me pressed
ag
ainst the mattress. “Go away!”
It came out barely a whisper.
The foot of the bed compressed,
as if someone had dropped there
on their hands and knees. I saw
no one, and yet the presence—
ghost?—came crawling toward me.
I tried to scream, but the weight
of something invisible and needy
fell against my body, cutting off
all sound. “No!” I tried. “No.”
I choked on the “n.” Then a hand
covered my mouth and the thing
whispered, I love you, Ash. I’ll
always come back to you. This
time noise escaped my mouth—
the high, anguished keen of a new
widow. I woke, certain Cole had
just returned for a final good-bye.
SOMETHING INVISIBLE
Lurks there, just this side
of the battlefield, at the fringe
of the poppy field. If I were
a romantic, I might call it
evil
but that would signal intent.
It’s more like invitation,
a test of will. It is what
remains
when hyenas and buzzards
have finished their work,
picked the bones
clean, and it
calls
the song of wind-tossed
sand. It is a ripple
of enlightenment, teasing
the weak
into its embrace
and squeezing the air
from their lungs, pressing
them to their knees
to worship.
Cole Gleason
Present
SPOKEN WORD POETRY
Is an amazing experience. First
of all, the gym fills up completely.
As Jonah and I take our seats
at the judges’ table, I whisper,
“This is like the American Idol
of poetry. Why are they all here?
Only twenty-six kids are performing.”
He smiles. Some teachers give
extra credit. And some kids
strong-arm their friends. No
one wants to be the only one
who doesn’t get cheered for.
That is not a problem. Everyone
cheers as each poet finishes
reciting a memorized piece.
Some are more theatrical, but
that doesn’t necessarily make
for the best performance. In fact,
we’re supposed to deduct points
if theatrics outweigh the correct
interpretation of the piece. I’m glad
I know most of these poems, and
understand the poets’ intent.
Still, seeing them in this way
brings a deeper meaning. I love
it. A few kids definitely rise to
the top. We narrow it to five, ask
them to perform again so we can
rank them. The winner will go
on to represent San Diego at
the state level. There are five
of us judging, and our scores
are averaged. The girl who finishes
first totally rocked it. “Thanks for
inviting me to do this,” I tell
Jonah, once we’ve wrapped it up.
“If you ever need another judge
for one of these, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
These kids have such great energy.”
How’s your energy? I’d love to take
you to dinner. To thank you. And
then, if you’re not too tired, there’s
a slam downtown tonight. Have you
ever been to one? If you enjoyed
this, you’ll go crazy over that.
I should say no. But he’s so sweet,
and I am hungry. And I’ve never
been to an actual slam, though
I’ve always meant to go to one. Oh,
why not? It’s Saturday, and all I’ll
do is go home and wonder what
Cole’s up to. So I say, “I’d like that.”
HE CHOOSES AN UPSCALE STEAKHOUSE
I’ve never eaten here. Too pricey
for my budget. But I’ve heard
about it. The décor is simple
dark wood, polished so it glows
in the low light. Brass and crystal
embellishments add glitter.
It’s early yet, but the place hums.
“Are you sure we can get in?”
He grins. I was an Eagle Scout,
you know, and I live by the motto,
“Always be prepared.” I made
a reservation. Hoping you’d say yes.
We wait only a few minutes before
the maître d’ escorts us to a table
in back. Jonah pulls out the chair
for me, more gentleman than explorer.
“Were you really an Eagle Scout?”
You betcha. He sits across from me,
stretching his long legs toward mine,
the warmth of them obvious, even
without contact. My dad signed me up
for Cub Scouts the day I turned seven.
I glance at his hair, which hangs
straight down to his collar.
My expression must change
because he says, What? You
don’t think I look like a scout?
I think my feelings are hurt.
But he laughs, so he must be
joking. Why is it so hard to tell?
Maybe because Cole is always
so serious. And why must I over-
think everything, anyway?
The waiter arrives to take our
drink order. Red wine okay? I nod,
Valley cabernet. The waiter seems
pleased. So, what looks good?
I scan the menu. Oh, my God.
How much do college professors
make? “I, uh . . . don’t know. Maybe
a dinner salad?” Maybe just water.
Hey, now. I didn’t ask you to
go dutch, you know. You’re not
a vegetarian, are you? All the beef
here is locally raised and hormone
free. I suggest the blackened filet.
I refuse to look at the price.
I haven’t had a really brilliant
steak for a long time. “I’ll take
your word for it. Sounds good.”
Back comes the waiter, plus wine.
He opens it, invites Jonah to taste.
Very good, thanks. Once our glasses
are poured, Jonah orders our meals.
Filets, medium for me, rare for himself.
Baked potatoes. Salads with balsamic.
I’M ALWAYS JUST
The slightest bit suspicious when a guy
seems to intuit things like the way
I like my steak cooked, or that balsamic
is my favorite dressing. He looks at me
for approval, of course. What can I do,
but give it? “Did you do a background
check on me? Or maybe you’ve been
peeking in my windows?” The thought
makes me blush. I’m glad it’s dark
in here. “Or, are you just psychic?”
No background checks and not
psychic. I’ll keep you guessing
about the windows. Um, but if
I were a betting man, I’d say
blinds, not curtains. At my raised
eyebrows, he laughs. I’m just good
at assessing people. You watch
your weight. Balsamic. You have taste
but are conservative. Medium
beef.
Okay, I like that he thinks I watch
my weight. Not much, but whatever.
I have taste. Good. But the conservative
thing bugs me. “Wait a minute.
I’m one hundred percent progressive.”
Really? Not sure how I missed that.
A dedicated liberal would be hard
pressed to give up her dreams to make
other people happy. Don’t get mad.
That’s only what you’ve told me.
HE’S INFURIATING
But only because this little voice
keeps whispering, “He’s right.”
Okay, I’ve told him more than
I should have. Given him insights
few enough even care to know.
What is it about him that makes
me want to expose my innermost
eccentricities? Did I just think
of myself as eccentric? Damn it.
He’s eccentric. I mean, he teaches
poetry, at a university. Does he have
a PhD in poetry? What does that take?
And why does he have to be so freaking
intriguing? Okay, I really must chill.
The best defense is a solid offense.
I’m ready to spar. “So, how did an Army
brat end up teaching poetry? What did
your parents have to say about that?”
You know, I blame my mom. All that
Dr. Seuss got me completely hooked.
He’s funny. And totally charming.
“No, really. I’m being serious.”
So am I. Growing up, we didn’t have
a lot of things because we moved
pretty often and Mom hated all that
packing and unpacking. But she was
a rabid book lover, and insisted on
reading out loud to my brothers and me.
Wherever we went, one of our first
stops was always the library. Books
were our entertainment. Books, and
BB guns. That was pretty much it.
The salads come and the waiter
refills our glasses. I wait until
he’s finished before I ask Jonah,
“How many brothers do you have?”
I had three. But I lost one four years
ago. In Fallujah. The other two
are still in the Army. Lifers, like Dad.
They used to tease that I must have
been adopted because I just never
had an interest in artillery. I was,
in fact, born a pacifist. A hippie gene
must have snuck in there somewhere.
CONVERSATION SLOWS
As we eat our salads—the dressing