Great uncle Harry was terribly scarred

by a kamikaze attack. Grandma

was a WAC—she was buried with honors,

having worked to decode the Enigma.

Granddad sailed the Indianapolis

then became a bellicose drunk. He died

at a family picnic, soused to the gills,

broke his skull on a rock. Uncle Don tried

to skirt death in Nam, joining the Navy–

but Uncle Jerry was forced to walk point

after he had twice refused to carry

a gun, and went crazy. My father joined

the Green Berets, was trained as a medic—

while doing special ops in the tropics,

 

contracted amoebic dysentery—

the doctors cut out part of his colon.

Uncle John was sent to South Korea,

came back with a limp and a crooked nose.

He claimed five black men kicked his face in

and left him for dead near the DMZ—

his son was in Iraq doing recon

last year, will go back next January.

Me and J.P. never served our country,

were never asked to sacrifice our health

for any cause. When dad left the army

he grew his hair, built a commune in Leadville,

dabbled with free-love, drugs, and Wittgenstein

and worked the graveyard shift at Climax mine.