14 Months

We parked along that long canal
into Pearl Harbor.
I wore pink. Hot pink.
Pink sundress.
Pink sandals.
Pink scarf around my hair.
Pink crepe flowers dotted
the lei we'd worked on for weeks,
now nestled in the tug's bow
as it raced to guide the Genesee inside.

The men wore white.
White uniforms.
White hats.
White shoes.
Lines of white swept 
across upper deck and lower,
bodies erect, faces forward.
It had been fourteen months, four hundred
twenty-dive days, ten thousand
two-hundred hours since I'd seen him.
Now he was finally home.
Home from Vietnam.
Home to a brass band.
Home to a shimmering lei.
Home to this pink opening flower,
ready to bleed all over white
when he touched me.




Pris Campbell
©2009

Published in Heavy Bear, Spring 2010






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