I burned my toys in the corn field
when I was just thirteen.
Bean sized biceps, frozen green creases
flowed to a plate, fit for a kill
as I had a smoke
in victory.
They were raised again and again
in my mirror
I was victim, monster, hero,
even the dead
till his shoulders filled the door
- and caught -
I burned red instead.
Following his counsel;
I took them out on other fields,
barstools, bedsheets, office lights,
smoldering on letters
- about zeros -
I lost them all in these
fires, one by one
left them forgotten
and battled on alone.
At twenty five
I kissed his forehead
like a child, I cried
before we fed him down
through our hands
to be tethered there by time.
Some day way after, when the dust had laid the praise
and hurt to rest,
while plucking grey above
the sink
I searched again for my soldiers;
but all I found in those eyes
was our strays and our guts
- and caught -
my Dad looking back at me.
