Dad’s Grief
My folks’ closet is crazy with coats and clothes hung like lonely hides waiting for someone to pull them on again.
Secrets sit in the corners, up on the shelves.
My dad’s old uniform is huge. The sleeves drop over my hands. The weight of it makes me important.
The war sits in his face, the crawling around in the mud and constant shit. Guys weeks dead, bloated, skins split, their innards a meal for the ants and monkeys.
We found a pit once. Smelled like barbeque.
Something’s gone out of him.
He closes the door and stays there until morning.