Standing in Oversized Fatigues

Fatigues

I stood in oversized fatigues to poseFor him, my oldest brother off in Nam.The bedroom trapped his aftershave, a bombExploding daily memories of thoseRides on his back across our creaking rooms.His stare in photos dug a trench, a ringThat wrapped a wild-eyed medic carryingHis friends and enemies down open tombs.And though he clawed back home, the nightmares changedHis eyes, malaria his family blood.We couldn't see what he was fighting forOr when the bullets ceased. He rearrangedHis past for those he dragged through jungle mud.A man at home must save the boy at war.

Late Chores

In a starch mist I see your head still bowedAbove our basement ironing board, the pleatsOf a taut surplice redefined, a cloudOf steam that fans the rumpled yoke and heatsThe wax-scarred hem and hamper-crinkled sleeve.Your altar boy won't credit hours that warmedChaos to ordered crispness, won't relieveYour arms of piles the hissing chrome transformed.

Late chores still bleach iniquities to whiteWith deft maneuverings and endless worry. Pardon and lift my every oversightThrough the paired entries in my dictionary:One root for "excess," one for "coats of skin,"Your surplus grace, my surplice cleansed of sin.

Snow Vigil

A childhood space descends from memory.Before the trucks have plowed the street, I seeThe drifts and tire ruts in the snow assumeThe plaster wall in my dead brother's room:

The crests of trowel marks in whitewashed tones(The horsehairs bleeding through) are burnished bonesFor snow-blind eyes. In time a snowplow's sparkIlluminates the curb. The scene goes dark.

What takes our breath can take our pain away,Rebuilding rooms for brothers still at play.Those walls were luminous when days were done:The breathtaking and painstaking are made one.