Quartering: A Collaboration.

It’s another beautiful Combat Paper/Warrior Writers week at the USO. Which means on Friday August 26th, we’ll have a show–this time at Workhouse Arts Center in Lorton at 7 pm. What a stunning group this week. So many MVPs–the show is going to rock your world, I know it. When I’m an old lady making small talk with my chickens as I feed them, I’ll think: those were the weeks my heart and understanding expanded the most. 

Some time ago–maybe a year, maybe two? I had a conversation with some of my Combat Paper brothers (well, the kids call them their combat paper uncles, so it follows…) that led to me writing the poem “Quartering.” Which was informed by them, of course, and by all the rooms I’m in, and by imagining what is really required of all the caregivers I love. It’s a thought experiment: if we tore down the barracks at military hospitals and offered incentives for Americans in the surrounding neighborhoods to quarter injured service members, what would the honest instructions be? How would that change the public’s relationship with war, with foreign policy? How would it affect the baffling popular fascination with the Kardashians?

The poem has been performed with musical accompaniment in front of a really big fancy audience, published in Bellevue Literary Review, and is now the limited edition art book in the photo above, made by the very people whose conversation sparked the idea. We worked on the project when I was up in Ithaca in the winter–I wrote about that trip here. We decided the book should have the feel of opening a letter. The cover is Combat Paper (paper made from used military uniforms), and it’s printed by letterpress and bound with hand-dyed thread. It’s absolutely beautiful. All that work makes it expensive for a book ($30), but inexpensive for a piece of art. If you’re interested, shoot me a message. The poem is below. I was trying to find a video of me reading it, but can’t seem to.

Quartering
Seema Reza

The Third Amendment of the United States Constitution: No soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.

When the soldier knocks on your door,
billet book in hand, move aside
to let him enter.
He will wipe his feet, remove his hat
(you’ll learn to call it a cover)
he will be polite, place his rifle by the door

Treat him with reverence, keep your fear
hidden from view. When the question
of whether he’s killed bubbles up in your throat,
thank him instead        for his service,
say you can’t imagine the sacrifice

When little streams of sand pour out of his pockets
and form mountains on your floor, be gracious—
look away while he sweeps the grains
back into the creases they emerged from

Make small talk with the soldier you are quartering,
invite him to eat with the family, make space for him
in front of the television, catch him up on celebrity gossip
he missed at war

Offer to make up the couch, though it is likely he will decline
and unroll his sleeping bag; he’s grown unused to comfort
He will have identified weaknesses
in your floor plan
and adjusted for them

Insist on providing a pillow    to ease your conscience
If you come out for a glass of water in the middle of the night,
see the orange pill bottles lined up on the granite counter
He may tell you what they’re for or you can guess

when your children complain at breakfast
about their sleep interrupted by his night terrors
shush them
Order a noise machine to obstruct his screams
Tell them this is only temporary

When he steps out to smoke a cigarette in the dark try not to see
the glowing deposits of depleted uranium beneath his skin
turning his body into a constellation of half-lives

Soon you will call a warning before you switch on
the garbage disposal and coffee grinder,
apologize when the door slams
reassure him when the neighbor’s car backfires
never leave the door unlocked

He will begin to tell you stories in which violence is the setting,
not the point, a piece of the landscape of the places he has visited
Then he’ll tell you what he knows about death
Do not flinch
If he cries, nod.

You notice yourself worrying when America bobs in place
watching the world, ready to pounce like a double-dutch champion
The word troops means something different
when you’re quartering a soldier

You may notice him making plans, initiating conversation
sitting down more often to beat the kids
at video games
His laughter less a cough, his anger more a flash
of lightning than a storm

You will wish to share his burden, sleep without the sound barrier
hear his cries in the night
For all his straight-backed composure
he is no machine
Lie awake and wonder if this is worth the tax incentives

You’re in too deep now, but remember your words—
this is only temporary—
orders will arrive and his bag—never fully unpacked—
will be shut tight, his boots laced, his dusty rifle cleaned

Feel the tension in his parting embrace
the recoil as he adjusts his cover
and looks away from your tears          Realize
your every act of kindness has been an act of war.