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.