Yusef Komunyakaa(b. 1947)
Facing It
My black f a c e fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this w a y — t h e stone lets me go.
I turn that way—I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial1
again, depending on the light
to m a k e a difference.
I go down the 5 8 , 0 2 2 n a m e s ,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the n a m e Andrew J o h n s o n ;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
N a m e s shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.