When they brought my father out
of Germany, he weighed ninety-two
pounds.
Was he still
a boy then? Was he kind?They could leave the camp
but had nowhere to go.
A brass key to a church, where
sometimes there was food. Then
back through the foreign woods.Who might he have been?
If not for this? Did he dream, ever,
of people burning beneath his plane?
Does it matter?
For years his medals restedin a velvet box, passed from wife to wife.
What counts against him?
What weighs in his favor?
Who has the right
to measure?
I struggled for some time about what to post today, and finally decided on this somewhat revised version of a NaPoWriMo piece.
Will we ever have no need for this day?
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