by Justin Webb

Created on: May 31, 2010

"Dunkirk"

Off the pier where this makeshift town meets

Lake Erie stands an old man tapping

on ice. He clicks his heels and dances

Dorothy down the frozen coast, dressed

in his very best Goodwill

flannel; sings The Yellow

Rose of Texas in his three-pitch key;

warms a can of Hormel Chili

with his hands. These hands that at one time

murdered—massaged the rifle’s cold steel

trigger, its warped and slivered grip. Fired seven rounds

into a German boy’s chest and as he watched

the tricked kid clutch his breast to stop the lung’s

breath and red from leaking, shot one final bullet

into the boy’s young skull. These hands

that held the striped ghost of a grown man

behind barbs and splintered twigs, let it lick and kiss

every inch of the man’s mudpacked face, lap off

his sweat, his reeking.

Now, though, the task is simple: to grip this frostbitten

cylinder, run each palm’s mighty keloid

over crevassed metal, clamping finger

on socket on bone. To stir the rubied mix

of meat until its thin film disappears, until the cow’s

shrieks and cleave are almost recognizable

as faint whistles from some far-off train,

and when this man’s food has finally reached

his stomach, these hands will throw

themselves up to his half-bald head, will slick

the white hair hanging near his ears

like a pin-straight princess crown, and after

will lead this man’s soft limp, two-step hitch

by way of rusted cane, rapping white caps

cased for months in waiting for their sun,

their warmth. Their thaw.

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