Facing It

Yusef Komunyakaa

My black face 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 way—the stone lets me go. 

I turn this way—I'm inside

the Vietnam Veterans Memorial

again, depending on the light

to make a difference. 

I go down the 58,022 names, 

half-expecting to find

my own letters like smoke. 

I touch the name Andew Johnson; 

I see the booby trap's white flash. 

Names 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

close 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.