DH

When the war drove you home,
in a green Ford,
I jumped like a fawn.

Teenaged brother to a wounded vet
I didn't yet know bullet whistles, white phosphorous,
or any heroes in heroin terrors.

I learned lightning strikes orchards,
rain drains the living room,
and rolling thunder is what shut eyes see.

The family's Thanksgiving Day smile camouflaged
a poker face of one-eyed jack rabbits ducking fire.
You mentioned the Chaplain's collar cross gleaming

as you chucked fate into a fox hole,
I draw some shine from that, from that
and the sun, dripping tender.