An Epitaph. {poetry}
A friend of mine died the other day,
but not really — I mean it wasn’t really
the other day. It just seems that way sometimes.
Sometimes the thirteen years seem a day
and I hold him in my arms again and watch
the warmth and gentleness and intelligence
fade slowly from his eyes while I tell him
everything will be okay, everything will be okay.
I was a writer even then, but none of the words I knew
could stop his blood from seeping through my shirt
to turn its olive drab a darker hue than red
or green — none of the important or subtle
or achingly beautiful words could grant another breath
or give me time to say the things I should have
or would have, but didn’t.
There was an accident the other day.
A car had left the road and a passenger was trapped,
held, the driver pleading in a soft, frightened voice:
everything will be okay, won’t it? — everything
will be okay?
Oh, the words, the words,
the achingly inadequate beautiful words.
*****
Terry Hertzler has worked as a writer and editor for more than 35 years. In addition, he has taught writing at the university level as well as for The Writing Center and the Southern California Writers’ Conference. His poetry and short stories have appeared in a variety of publications, including North American Review, The Iowa Review, The Writer, Margie, Nimrod, Serving House: a Journal of Literary Arts, Literal Latte and the Los Angeles Times, as well as being produced on stage and for radio and television. His publications include The Way of the Snake, a book of poetry on the war in Vietnam, Second Skin, a collection of poetry and short fiction, and several chapbooks. His work has been nominated twice for The Pushcart Prize. Hertzler served with the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam, 1969-70.