My father worships in the cathedral of the eye
the ancient memory box falls open the stored pictures
crisp as cellophane crackle
each one is electric each one a lightning bolt
a regiment of young men smoking Gauloises
the faint flower of my mother’s handwriting
this is my inheritance
busted eardrums and a bloody pillow
my father’s wan smile from his hospital bed
the tooled bronze of the gunner’s clip
the bayonet where he has etched his name
like a howl and something else
chalk of a line
between our generations
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
