Buried in the Sand

When Those at Home First See

Nearly two years passAfter Pearl was bombedBefore we're allowed to seeA photo of our dead.And even this is late:The three soldiers half-Buried in the sandAs if unsure—to hideOr be revealed?Breakers rock and smoothThe beach. Men surfaceLike starfish washed ashoreBy some turmoil undersea.Irregularities. The deadLie as though holdingThe ground more tightly,Since it has lost its holdOn them. Or has the tideHalted their burialWith its now I comeAnd now I leave, foreverLeaving them in this seamBetween the sand and water?And still we see no faces—Just the fabric of uniformsWet with dark, then drying.This leaves us to imagineThe ones we love or the onesWe think are nameless. Palm up,The arm that lies extendedNeither points nor graspsBut does not let us go.

"We Can Do It!"

         —slogan from World War ii poster

I was brought up to believe in bringing upChildren: that was the most important jobI could have. Getting married, having kids—Like breathing in and breathing out. The warChanged my mind; I was rivetedBy the story of Rosie rolling up her sleeveAnd flexing her muscles the way my husband didWhen we were courting. He had been the oneTo fix the broken washer and keep the carRunning "smooth as castor oil," he'd joke.

When he and most of the other men sailed off,I learned to repair airplane accessories—Starters, generators, alternators. Me!Who never even went to high school.I walked down rows of Plexiglas nosesFor B-17 bombers, polishing themUntil they gleamed like see-through igloos.Even for a woman, I was small—A bare five feet in my bare feet.So I would grab a flashlight and crawlUp into the gas tanks to look for leaks.I felt like I was part of something largerThan myself, my little goals and worries.And money—I'd never made so much. I boughtThe kinds of food I'd always dreamed of—steak,Not hamburger. And ice cream by the gallon.Sometimes I'd share it with the other galsAt the plant, but not always. Hell, they could buyTheir own.

The men of course would cluster around usThick as seeds on a dandelion. PrettyWasn't part of it—the homeliest could get A hometown hero. I never told my husbandAll that I did. And he was smart enough,When he got back, not to ask. He never toldMe everything that happened overseas.These days our life and love are quiet.I help him change the transmission or rebuildThe carburetor. As he lies beneath the car,I can hand him any tool he can name.

Rationing the War

A good thing I suffered through the DepressionBefore I hit this.After all I did without, I don't missWhat now takes coupons

To buy: any meat that isn't Spam,Gasoline,Rubber for my car's tires, seams of nylonsOn girly gams.

Too old, recruiters told me. So I went home,Forced to trollFor victory in my garden, digging little foxholesFor seeds in the loam.

But I hate when coffee and sugar disappear—That makes it toughTo haul out of bed and weld the stuffThat jams up the gears

Of the Axis. Even the kids chip in:Save the scraps,Their hand-scrawled posters say, to beat the Japs.We want to win

So bad we look like mirrors: smiling to keepMorale highTill our faces ache. Some people can buy,No matter how steep

The cost. Mister Black will find it for meIf I've got the pull.He runs his market while pennies turn to steel,And soldiers die for free.