A Certain Elderly Frenchman
01 Thursday Aug 2013
Posted by Will Kirkland in Poetry
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A certain elderly Frenchman, eighty-three,
Father, soldier, husband, son,
Writes in a shaky hand
How it was not so
When he tortured his first Algerian.
Now he writes of his regrets:
Not for the man or the way he died.
Not for the carnivore of shame
That might have settled on his soul
But only for a dying
Not fast enough
To let him beat his secrets out.
Regrets, yes. Regrets
I have many,
But never remorse, which of course
Implies something else,
I have never allowed
In this unstained house
Though others wish
To couple my name with
Guilt.
I only regret that I failed in my service
To my uniform, my nation.
Which I would not let happen again.
Will Kirkland
2005, San Francisco