To a Vietnam Veteran
Memories still feel dangerous
After forty-five years,
memories still feel dangerous,
like a bullet lodged near his heart.
On sweltering Georgia nights,
his soul bunkers down in his body,
preparing for an ambush of images.
He trembled in a foxhole,
clutching a letter from his girl,
listening for the Viet Cong
to silently raise their rifles.
Warble of a broken ceiling fan
rearranges stifling heat.
Helicopter blades whirred over Nam.
His buddy whimpered at a phantom limb.
Blood seeped through bandages.
His friend’s name is carved in black granite.
At a family dinner,
his face stiffens into a death mask.
Behind his eyes, he pulls a thousand triggers.
In a foreign land, he stuffed his dreams
in body bags. There was no honor
in the sacrifice.
He backtracks the needle,
Hendrix burns his guitar at Monterey.
On cloudless nights,
stars looked…
