He jumps
off the 14th street bridge after
he leaves work with me.
Our last moments together
he smells like brimstone.
His mind like a truck going
down a dusty dirt road.
I’ve got the soul of a whore
destroying vows for money.
I’m tired of walking through graveyards.
I should have looked
out for my band of brothers,
yet he threw water on the fire of feeling
and locked his plan in a top secret drawer.
Men whose job is to kill people would never jump
in front of a bullet in battle,
so where did the courage to jump
come from? Did he hate the only things
that showed him love or did hope leave
on the bus that day? One way ticket. Return TBD.
I don’t cry at life. Sadness helps me enjoy the joy.
But this moment stares back at me in my dreams.
Some nights life feels like I’m jumping with him.
by Bill Quinn (988 — Suicide and Crisis Lifeline)
Editor’s Note: The imagery in this poem is stark and difficult, drawing the reader into the pain of a veteran’s reality, so much so it’s no longer easy to offer platitudes to service when life and death continue long after battle.
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