Grunt
Red light and a gentle nudge.
“Get up,” he whispered.
A cold breeze biting at my nose and an aching in my feet.
This is what you wanted.
Strained vocal cords and dirt caked clothes.
“Do it again!” I shouted.
The sun setting in the distance and the sting of windblown sand.
This is what you wanted.
Humidity and a ceremony.
“Corporal,” he proclaimed.
Friends and celebrations.
This is what you wanted.
Bunkbeds and long lines.
“I can’t eat another hotdog,” he grumbled.
The glassy sheen of calm water and the taste of salt in the air.
This is what you wanted.
A plane ride and gun fire.
“Open the gate!” he screamed.
The stench of death split open by the wail of a grieving mother.
This is what you wanted.
Standing
I was once a tree,
my bark a deep blue cloth,
branches capped with snow.
I stood in a dense forest,
one that had weathered
many frightful storms.
The clouds began to mass,
opening their gaping maw,
howling a terrible chorus of wind and rain,
electrical fingers touching the earth
with deadly precision.
We remained steadfast,
roots interlocked after years of growth.
The clouds began to retreat,
their cries reduced to whispers
as the sun, once again, embraced the forest.
A tree fell.
It was spared by the storm
but felled by rot,
a disease invisible
to everyone around it.
The forest stood still.
Mourning.
a poem about nothing
I have a name, but I won’t share it with you.
I have a brother, carved from stone, patiently awaiting
the day I have the privilege of joining him.
I have a sister uprooted now with deep roots,
radiantly warm, unconcerned with time,
place, phone bills, another’s center.
I have a mother, eyes of a cat, hands of a painter
toils relentlessly against the shadows cast by the sun.
Her house has no corners now, a flashlight under her pillow.
I have a father, chiseled by The Carpenter,
infallible the walls of his house, proud ninety-degree angles,
a shotgun propped against the front door.
I am with my brother now, I long for nothing—
deaf, blind, confined, confused—
our names are the same font but you will never read them.
Jacob Lopez was born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico and served 5 years in the Marine Corps infantry, reaching the rank of sergeant and deploying to Afghanistan. He started writing poetry in an introductory poetry workshop at ASU, where’s he now a student.
