“Dear Pen Pal” and “Death of a Code Talker” by Will Cordeiro

Dear Pen Pal,

Sorry

I haven’t written.

It’s enough to be

smitten by fleshy

catalogs from long-

gone lingeried sub

-letters. I toss chits,

circulars, alumni

donation pledges,

bulk-rate “current

resident” or “you

may already be a

winner” solicitations

in a kinked up litter

bin. My box is flush

with them; you might

as well address my

junk. No: at this rate,

I’m better putting off

peeking in. I must’ve

chunked a check for

my fear of rejection

slips; I jettison puff,

guff, & bureaucratic

missives. Listen, kid,

I’ve refused the past

due notices & third-

class scams. Hey pal,

I’m sure I’ve cast off

years of Your Best

Wishes; trashed Save

the Dates & a Merry X

-mas. Lost plenty of

your postcards drunk

with tropic vistas. So,

let this be forward if

not forwarded: I hope

you’re moved. I have.

I’ve eked these irk-

some lines; come to

my point, no return

address & stamped

with postage due.

Always,

Y.

Death of a Code Talker

Crammed in a doorjamb as part of the public

where a draft sweeps by, I’m shiftless in standing

room only, behind stiff Marines, hushed hosts

of Diné, blonde teens buzz-cut and dressed up

with pressed beige fatigues who keep shuffling

in more fold-out chairs to seat the over-

flow of neighbors and elders, a storied

tribe assembled here for Keith

Little—big man, rancher, chief voice

for code talkers whose unbroken crypt-

ography once converted their language

into a weapon. Underage, Keith enlisted

by goading any friend handy to lend

him a thumbprint. “Now what

was that for?” the man who gave it

pressed him. “We’re going off to war.”

The man’s skin already inked: I should’ve given

you the finger, I imagine his comeback

since the gravelly eulogist switches to

Navajo. Half the congregation laughs.

This is a speech which may well stand

at the threshold of extinction in a lifetime

or so. Uniformed in bolo ties, these soldiers,

now older and fragile, helped raise the flag

at Iwo Jima and saved the whole Pacific

theater. The services done, I’m driving over

barren ground, thinking of my abandoned

family; my ancestors who wrested this land,

this country which has never not been at war

with its people. As for the tours and the rest,

I’ve many misgivings about any nativist

bluster of American strength. Why

are raptured young soldiers transported

into battle with only a bystander’s

notion of their histories—but pride

for a nation that’s never loved

anyone back? A flag stuck at half-mast

snaps in a storm blowing up. My truck

passes a face concealed below a shadow

of Stetson, held fast against the traffic,

trying to hitch, his thumb offered out

to switches of dust—chaffing—quickly

lost, a ghost crossed in the gust, translated

to wind… And maybe you’d be right

to ask what part I’ve played in all of this.

Will Cordeiro has recent work appearing or forthcoming in Agni, Cimarron Review, The Cincinnati Review, DIAGRAM, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. Will’s collection Trap Street won the 2019 Able Muse Book Award, forthcoming in 2020. Will co-edits the small press Eggtooth Editions and lives in Guadalajara, Mexico.