Sonnet from Exile

(reflections of a Vietnam War draft resister who fled the United States)

No tears. That would be foolish. I am free
Of all my country’s legacies of gore;
Of stinking cities and the silent war
In subway cars at three a.m. For me
No plastic chicken stands or fantasy
Of sanitary underarms. No more:
I left them long ago, and, leaving, bore
No tears. That would be foolish. I am free.

But it is Christmas, and where once I’d go
The old roads home, I cannot now. Above,
A sky that is not mine drips alien rain
On streets whose roots were never mine to know.
These happiest times, how foolishly I love
A piece of earth I shall not see again.

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