Father's Day 

Dad tells me his dream 
a little blonde child 
walking out onto earth 
being pulled into earth 
and reemerging as oak 

Old Photos 

We go through old photos 
My uncles in Vietnam 
Both combat medics 
Mutilated victims in hospital 
Returning home but not the same 
Their many many girlfriends 


Split Screen 


We sit in the glow of the TV room 
outside your basement office 
and makeshift bedroom, 
playing a video game 
that bigotedly depicts the Vietnam War, 
a war in which both of your brothers fought 
and returned, 
changed. 

We never do this. 
And yet you seem utterly enthralled 
and happy, which makes me happy too. 

I on the corner of an oak table, 
darkened over the years 
by my sitting and you 
in a swivel chair that 
I'll soon inherit once 
you seek elsewhere. 

I don't remember what we say 
and don’t yet comprehend 
the floating sadness. 

Is It Just Birds 

when two cardinals  
(bright red) drift 
into my line of sight 
and I'm looking for a sign,  
so I see it as a sign? 
(Is it just birds?) 

Is my faith just 
a tool to stave off 
entropy, or is it encoded 
by a higher love? 
(I'm asking.) 

Is it God's will 
when we hurt each other, 
acting out old impulses? 
I am crushed like a bug 
under small and large 
lemons—pressed, 
relieved, pressed again. 

Something shifts 
when we’re not looking. 
We become unfit 
for what is asked. 
What destroys 
keeps only us. 
It's a Saturday. 


Door 

It is a reality 
to be alone in this world 
A door opens 
that is so big 
and so impossible 
which when we see it 
startles and delights 
in equal measure 

It is a gift 
to be alone in this world 
together with everyone 
and everything 
we’ve ever loved 
or witnessed 
or have not