crypituri/

my

mother wrote a daily letter

to my brother when he shipped out to Nam in 72.

Although, uneventfully, nothing much had

happened differently from the day before.

There are things you can hide behind

transformed. like turning metaphors

into a sort of earth energy. It was her

way of pointing at his baby pictures

in the blue album that sat on the coffee table

in the yellow, faded plastic.

"That's him as an Indian",

"That's him again as a carpenter",

That's us in the background with him

as a policeman holding firm

as if discharging his weapon into

a crowd of protestors. Letters

written are a product of metabolism. They

drain, then they discharge. When

your dressed in a leather pantsuit,

skin on the back of your leg comes off.

You run thru the house deprived of voices.

You rub essential oils on your feet.

You tire quickly almost to the point of collapse.

The Dr, told her she was overworked/overlooked. It

was the way the Asians behind the deli counter

at Kroger's give their ceremonial blessings

before setting fire to her ureter. Deprived

we brought home a cat.

Later

brother came home a changed man. Wanting to

each morning, annihilate something; smother something half alert,

kick hay over a sweater strewn bedroom. lay facedown

listening for foot pounds. Eat his supper from a can.

Everyone got drunk. Ransom is the way

war treats sanctification. Each night

a barrel is placed to the temple of the youngest

in the room. Go with me and pretend

that i'm making this up.

Reviews

[Alessander]

This was fantastic.
The details were vividly portrayed, and raw.

as if discharging his weapon into
a crowd of protestors

rub essential oils on your feet

Eat his supper from a can

It told a story of how war affects not just those who march off, but those who are "home".

It also accurately describes how war changes a person, and how that trauma can ripple through a family, community, country...

Great stuff.

[h d e rushin]

thank you brother for understand the times in America (or even the world) where war has an impact, whether imaginary or illusory, on those who see and love you when you return home. My brother took his own life after a terrible drug addiction in 2004. How he lasted that long was a miracle to all of us. For those among us (presidents perhaps) who threaten the world with force of arms, think of how awful it eats away at the people who call duty their mission...thank you my dear friend...dana

[kentuck14]

A painful story of what war does to families as well as the one coming home . . . who is full of anger and rage . . . fearful, lost somewhere in himself. I often wonder what my mother thought of my military service (69-71). She never said, nor did I ask. I hope your brother, if he's still alive, is doing okay.
T

[h d e rushin]

thank you dearest...My brother took his own life in 2004 when fentanyl first hit the streets of Detroit. War sill impacts us, every day, when we think of the waste it caused us. Your words, like your poetry, is so comforting....dana

[Einstein Noodle]

not easy ... not at all ... especially for our Nam Vets ... coming home to angst against war and in particular...that war made things far more difficult .. some things a person will never un-see ... and adrenaline injected life does not settle ... does not allow a person to "return" ...always an honor to read your poetry h d .... it's the real deal says i!

[h d e rushin]

your so correct Einstein. That Vietnam war was different in terms of the psychasthenia it caused. The phobias, the compulsions, the irrational obsessions etc. I was watching the news of a Vietnam war vet who died without any family to morn his passing and thousands of Nam vets came to give him a good burial . Perhaps it was the spirt of the times..Perhaps just the comradeship that so closely resembles love that is both cherished and longed for.. thank you for your insight my friend...dana