Judson Evans
Limpkin, GA
Nov. 17, 1997
Dear Yankee Confessors,
No, I’m not here for the Little Grand Canyon of Georgia. But, yes,
those are junked cars beside the scenic overlook. Out of view,
underfoot— this crazy quilt of graves. Young boys in the last losing
battles of the war. Irrational numbers: 17, 18, 19 years old. Names
of battles from hometowns—Irwindale, Richmond Creek. Hollows
and fields, the hiding places of afterschool games. Like the boys
from my high school, from the football team, the car club, the
weekend hunting trips. Beautiful bodies of the straight boys from
gym class. They assumed their slots in the diorama of manhood.
Bullying me for my long hair and bellbottoms— “see you finally
grew some hair on your balls” pointing to some staticky lint.
The older brother of a boy from my class, back from Vietnam,
gave me a ride on his Harley. That involuntary pushing away
like the experiment with magnets in second grade. I couldn’t
grab tight enough, until he yelled back over the roar, and afraid
he could feel my scar, I fused my sternum to his leather-clad
back. Those dead rebel boys—whatever side of history—
were brave. I’m a shirker, my secession different than theirs.
Even if I hate it, they believed in something—unstated stance
in the lean of their fence posts and porch rails. Saying I’d never
fight for what they did pretends I’d fight at all.
last skirmishes—
between the dates and names
fire ant mound
Uneasy Rider, Bob
About the Author
Judson Evans is a full-time Professor of Liberal Arts at Berklee College of Music, where he teaches poetry workshops on haiku, haibun, and renku, and a visual studies course on Paleolithic cave art. His collaborative book of lyric poems responding to cave painting, Chalk Song, was published by Lilly Press, Boston, in fall 2021. He is haibun co-editor for Frogpond.