The Present Home by Dr. Lawrence Nannery

She was beatified, really and truly,
To think that he, far off there in the war,
Away from everything he knew and cherished,
doorSeeing things he was forced to see:
The filth, the fear, the mud, the rats, the food,
The sight of the bodies blown into undefinable pieces,
The blood of children, the smell of the blood and the urine ―
The rain of fortuitous death ―
All that in front of his handsome face,
All that in front of his steel-blue eyes,
Churning up his insides every day ―
Would still take the trouble.

The fear of death, the sudden death of men he knew,
And the trees all dead, and animals dead,
And the grayness of the hills …
Even the whores they needed so ―
Not one of them, dead or still living, yet a father ―
To think that he still thought, still would take the time
To get, somehow, this present, this trinket, just for her,
For her who kept alive the home fires,
Asking her, don’t let them go out.

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Filed under ovi magazine, poetry

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