Differently
                           
        The war touches so many,
          in so many ways,
            each very differently.

        That child knew of no one,
          of whom she is aware,
            who was involved.

        That teenager found out,
          that his teacher was in it,
             and knew people who died.
  
        That college student knows,
          in the back of her mind,
            that the uncle she never knew,
              was killed in combat.

        That elderly man remembers his son,
          boarding the plane - reluctantly. . .
             not wanting to fight.

        That man's wife remembers, 
            her young cousin working in Nam,
              trying to save our soldiers' lives.

        That teacher knew someone,
          who ran to Canada,
            trying to dodge the draft.

        That secretary watched,
          as her only brother left--
             off to serve his tour.

       That man watched the war,
          from Thailand,
            never seeing the war.

      That man saw the war,
          up close and personal,
            and saw his friend die.

        That man saw the war,
          up close and personal,
            and now his girl cries,
               over his name on the wall.

        The war touches so many,
          in so many ways,
            each very differently.

                      -Libby Wasmund

into the earth

i walked up to the
black wall
eleven years old
not too innocent
to know exactly
what those names meant.

i felt out of place
as if i didn't belong
standing there
between
women who had lost
their husbands and 
mothers who had buried 
their sons
for this war.

i did not have
a name to 
look up in the
directory
i could not press my
small fingers against
those
carved letters
i could only read them
one after the other
followed by a diamond 
or a cross.

on that april day
the vietnam war
was
not my tragedy
i could watch but
not feel 
its sadness.

years later i stand
before the same wall
american flags and flowers
clutter its base.

i realize
the vietnam war
is this
nation's tragedy
whether we lost a father,
a lover, a sister or a son
it belongs
to us all. 
we must remember it
for its horror and
injustice.

it belongs
to all
who believe they are
american
we have a responsibility to 
the names
carved in 
black granite, sinking 
into the earth.

it was a september evening
as i turned my back
to the sun setting
behind the
wall. 
i could feel its sadness
becoming 
my own.

Katharine Walmsley