1.   Mr. Cortes taught us Shakespeare.

     He stuttered through Macbeth,

     chewed his thumbnail through Hamlet

     until only a deformed stub remained.

 

    He blamed it all on shell-shock,

    the battles near Anzio; 18-year-olds

    plunging into bleeding waves

    between floating bodies of Aussies

    and Kiwis before we were born.

 

    His Highlanders' attack on Chiusi

    was the reason for his large belly, he said, soldiers

    eating when food was available; his insomnia

    the result of interrupted sleep; his jitters

    and stammer caused by the bombardments.

 

    We mimicked his speech, mocked

    the 45-year-old belly that hung over his belt,

    the label of his slacks flipped outwards,

    the wrinkled trousers and the shine

    on his pants’ seat.  None of us asked about his War.

 

2.   We should have.

                                         We should have before

    we found ourselves knee-deep in our own Chiusi,

    cutting through barbed wire, weaving past mines,

    dodging shells and shrapnel,

 

    crawling face-down between bodies

    and staccato bursts of gun fire.

    We learned how hard it is to live with

    ghosts of slain friends, memories and regrets.

 

    Only then, too late, did we understand Cortes,

    his nightmares and daydreams, torn between

    thoughtless students and his need to beg

    forgiveness for surviving.