Father.

a Naked face, blank of motion
ducks behind numb sandbags
fearless hard helmets -
my sight of the War.
Two report live, Walter and Dan,
every evening at Six
another no-fly zone crossed
and ten soldiers coming home.

You turn to me,
in your Retired Dress Whites
tucking the remote into the fold 
of the armchair to comment
on the size of the Trench
that keeps us indifferent
to the peace we can not hold.

And I remember growing
in the shadow of your commands
knowing I could never be
as full as the lead in your heart:
the hole that keeps us 
cold and still after dinner

while the Boys measure 
and inventory the length of good-bye 
from the watch post on tv:
I wonder why
none are young here
and how long you will be 
Away, at War.



mon pere,  

     "things are always changing,
until they forget how"...

1997, Novembre

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©Denise Angela Celeste