A Letter Home
The Right Too
The Last Time
A Letter Home
I wrote the letter to your mother.
You made me promise. I did it.
She replied an invite when I returned.
“If” had been crossed out.
She was sweet.
The door answered.
Plate of cookies.
Some coffee.
Coffin-fresh, tri-corner folded flag.
Prom picture stared off the mantle.
She asked of my battle ribbons,
showed me yours, backed out to sunlight.
Came her first tear. She fussed with my collar.
Shoulder patted.
Misty eyes as if following a fly.
Her first punch stepped me back.
Fists pounded my chest. She screamed.
Wailed. Begged to know — why? You not me.
She bought the story in the letter.
Ok. I didn’t tell her the color of your insides.
Or how Crazy Ron ran. Beast-like. Coated.
Viscera as ribbons on his shirt.
Yes, a berserker.
Rifle emptied. Dropped. Grenades thrown.
Pistols emptied. It all ended at knifepoint.
NVA bad guys scattered in boiled fear.
I didn’t tell her.
Weather grounded extraction for two days.
I didn’t tell her of your sobs.
How you begged me to end it.
I didn’t tell her we packed your dead-ass at great risk.
I didn’t tell her I’d only known you for three days.
I can’t tell her I’ve blocked your name completely.
The Right Too
I want your skin to move at all times.
Yes, resonating. To this day.
You need have been a little bony,
uniform not formed.
You’ll want have had some
bugs stuck in your camo face paint.
And what a pain in the ass that is,
‘cause they’re still moving.
The ability to suck a cigarette
down to the filter in five puffs
And understand the way to get
used to the flies helping to rid
what’s left of Bernie’s head from
your hair, back of your neck,
ears, etcetera. An aboriginal bath.
That’ll work.
The way of a few festered cuts and
yes, good! some oozing leech bites
will be most help-full. If a knife, a
frequent weapon of choice, you’ll
know about cool little cut. Top
of your thumb from the guard.
On the knuckle.
Right there.
And yeah. Does your left index finger
still have a tiny-tiny little numb spot,
from pulling grenade pins? And of course
the obligatory ringing in the ears.
You know that, don’t you?
You will also have to know how weird
it feels whenever some-one thanks you
for their freedom on Veteran’s Day.
And yes, they’ll pump your hand like
they really care.
If you can do this list — and bits and parts
of other lists, too numerous for here.
All of which include death’s smell
stuck in your nose, even when cleaning
a toilet. Then and only then have you
earned the right to say: Welcome Home.
[If not, then please shut the fuck up.]
The Last Time
I ask at times how it would be
to be you.
I do not know you.
And you? No, you do not know me.
Did you know of this day?
To-day? Your last? Or did you just assume
it was coming at some time?
Will they find the pictures when they find you?
She sits there waiting for you.
Hopes you are safe.
Does she know when you last made love
was the last time?
Did you?
No, you do not know me.
You do not care of the windage,
or the range. Or that you are confirmed kill #70.
Would you feel better if I told you how far
I crawled to do this? Hard work.
If you knew of this day today,
would you still be right there?
You will not hear the shot.
Those with you will freak.
The first thing they will feel as
you fall to the ground is
terror.
Will they pick up her picture?
Yes, it was the last time.
I hope you knew.
I did not know I would see you last night,
holding your pictures.
Your life.
Twenty-eight years.
Since the last time.
Thank you.