Saturday, October 6, 2012

The Soldier

My father wasn’t anyone’s father 
or husband or friend.
He was a soldier.

My father waited rifle cocked
for enemies to storm the hill
or step out of  our bedrooms.
Once when I came to visit,
he cooked me dinner.
Eggplant parmesan 
with tomatoes
from his garden.

Food must be fresh.
He said this from a mist

of beer and smoke.

And then he winked 

as if we shared 
a secret knowledge.

But of course 
I barely knew him.