Homefront

Going to war
didn’t kill my father.
Though at times
when his demons are riled,
he’ll tell you
“Maybe it should have.”

He lost no limbs.
A terrible back
and busted knees.
From jumping out of planes.
Carrying a pack.
Just being a soldier.

What he lost runs deeper.
His horrors
became the marrow in his bones.
The electric pulse in his brain.
Made his heart
beat differently.

Most nights not being able to close his eyes
without seeing those he worked with
dead or something else just as terrible.
Seeing enemies and friends alike
torn apart
by the terrible machine.

Not being able to connect
with my siblings, my mother, or myself
because every bullet removed,
or put into someone,
pulled him further from us.
Making him more of a stranger.

 

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