Pam Crow

Military Cemetery

I found you here, Father, a decade after you died.
Your tombstone is identical to hundreds growing

like bleached teeth from the buzz-cut grass.
Maintain a respectful attitude and volume.

Did they play taps for you? No sitting on headstones
or on top of graves. Did you get a 21-gun salute?

I lost you, I let you become lost, you left. Paranoia
invaded your body like incurable cancer.

I heard you nailed plywood over your windows.
At 16 you taught me how to drive.

“Listen,” you said, “for when the engine begins
to sound unhappy.” O chainsaw father,

unhappy engine, you loved that spot near
railroad tracks, next to the water’s edge.

It is a park now, with manicured gardens.
I went down there today. You wouldn’t like it.

I searched for a rock, and the first one
was a broken thunder egg. I found the other half

nearby. If I believed in signs, there you were.
O chain smoker, chain link fence father.

Stones found at graveside will be left alone.

Back to Issue XIV…