This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2012, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
This poem was written by student Dillon Blake Ely in Writing on War, WRTG3019, at the University of Utah.
Charon
By Dillon Blake Ely
We lived in a tent against the frozen earth,
Four characters in a space for two, if
You count from the beginning:
Me, American, Afghan, Frenchman
Now breakfast comes before the sun rises, before
Afghan knows which way to pray, before
We know who the enemies are
We sit at a table in the morning dimness
There are three bottles of red wine
Out of place, on this arid plateau
I salivate sitting before them, they are mine, they
Remind me of what it was like to live
American dug them from an abandoned truck
While everyone else slept, while I
Sat at the table before Radio
The stars above, falling, just not here yet
The conversation is in gestures, in hands, in
Head nods and murmurs, rustling around the table
We talk about the night, about our dreams
About our women and their men, about
Lives that don't live on this plateau, about
Lives that speak to each other with real words
Radio crackles and the table looks to me
I play with the knobs till the crackle is clearer
Radio says our position is taking fire and I hear
Frenchman, calling for Air, for more Air!
American giggles with anticipation, American
Stirs in his seat like a child
I'm excited at the sound of Frenchman
So vigilant, such perfection in his Radio discipline
Frenchman lifts the bottle in his hand, just
As Radio fuzzes from the blast
I pull from the wine and grin with red teeth
Afghan slaps me on the back, approving nods
Circle the table, a job well done
Afghan grabs cigarettes from a cargo pocket, smiles
We sit and smoke and drink and smell and
Wait, there is a breeze that carries the dawn here,
A soft orange glow to our faces, the ground
Fading away in the contrast
We let it bathe us, while ghosts
With skeletal feet creep away, disguised
As shadows shrinking into the shrubs
They disappear with us, with all of the fuzz from
Radio
The only sound, the breeze, the swish of wine
It makes its way around the table
Our silent conversations have finished, we all
Sit in peace, the war is done
We appear as the cast from a children's book
The kind you remember till you're grown
Radio was the narrator, everyone else
In a dream, one you wouldn't, not choose