I thought that since it is Memorial Day weekend, I would post a poem for my father, who served in both World War II and Korea. This one concerns my father after he returned home from that latter war.
My father is sleeping in that tent again,
where every night the rats still run and run
across his body, and every night
he still slaps them–hard–away from him,
never waking, never knowing
that it’s my mother’s hand, soft
against his chest, reaching
for him in the dark.