The flickering lights of life unfold .
COLD MOUNTAIN BY JAY RUBIN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 19
Might’ve been rainy, might’ve been cold
The flickering lights of life unfold
A soldier dies a sad cliché
Redhead arms of the woman he loves
His raspy winter’s voice on ice
I marry you, I marry you
And we, too, married soon
Our own winter a hundred months away
My camera turned its lens on you
Green eyes wet, velvet mascara
In quiet calm, as credits roll
The silent crowd unseats the hall
Soldiers on a slow march home
Bugles heavy, half salutes
I could not speak of horrors then
The wars we’d not yet waged
And you, beside me, wounded, too
Stumbling through the evening air
Our raining on each other’s neck
A storm inside our compact car
Our own first shot still years away
Our battle lines, our judgment day
That was the deepest we ever got
The movie’s outdoor parking lot
JAY RUBIN
My fiancé and I went to a screening of Cold Mountain. After the movie we could hardly speak; we could only sob. At the time I knew such emotion would be rich for a poem but over the years I could never quite determine how to express that emotion—that is, not until when my wife and I separated. Our split gave the poem an extra leg of support, a new strand for braiding, and a clue to the curious and tragic salt in those post-cinema tears.