I see him a little boy

With mud caked on his boots;

Steel-toe-scuffs on a landing pad;

Rolled sleeve fatigues;

A bit of gun-shy countered with pride;

Dreaming the horror of helicopters
And sheets of red-on-white;

Mama-sans and snipers;

Men made ghosts in a jungle;

Later, reading a list of the things
he supposedly carried

When he was young;

Spitting;

"Fuck they don’t know shit
About Vietnam."

Fermenting a thunderous,
Blameless cold carved from fear

Unrequited.

And I want to ask him;

Did you watch men die?

And be a trigger for words

That heal.

But I hold my tongue.

Because I know
What he will tell me;

The things he carried

Are things

A daughter

Will

Never

Understand.