by Corrina Angel
The table is long in my memory
And sometimes I think it keeps getting longer
My father at the head
Me, off to his right like some kind of tiny lieutenant
Five
No one else around
Before the coma
Before the police
But after the apartment
He tells me many things at this table
Like how a person is a balloon
And holding them too close will destroy them
And how eye contact is a sign of disrespect
Or flirting, you decide
I am young, and the things my parents say are as good as gospel
So I keep my eyes cast down always
/
I am my mother’s tiny lieutenant too
Her navigator
Copilot
Reliant and reliable as well
How convenient that I could sit in the passenger’s seat by the time I was nine
Did you know that it used to be a gunner position back in the day?
/
I have so many relatives that used to be in the military
Father, grandfathers, uncles, aunt
Yet I have never actually gotten to know a single one of them
My mother rattles off their ranks, their accomplishments, their commendations
None of this tells me how they felt about it all
No one ever bothered to write that part down
/
Sometimes I wonder if a soldier was what I was made to be
If I am drenched in war like battlefield soil gets drenched in blood
If I destined to become the sort of person who stuffs down fear into some forgotten corner
Never looks their betters in the eye
Acts as a finger on an unclean hand
And justifies that uncleanliness to anyone who asks
I am the coerced recruit who wants to go home
I am the first casualty that knows their fate before the order to charge is given
I am useful
And that’s all that really matters