I sunk deep into a shoebox I found by dad’s pistol,
demonically, like Adam’s teeth into his wife’s apple
dark pictures spilled out like white milk.
I had never seen these before
since dad ended the war, a solider with a
Tommy gun hammering his shoulder in
stills of history which makes generations believe
the whole world was black and white TV.
Hills the size of two story homes built
of skinny hairless boys, their mothers,
and big hungry bellies were
pushed by black and white bulldozers
operated by men with peroxide skin
into pitch-dark ditches.
“Dad, these people are dead, right?
xxxxxxThey must be.”
“No. We could hear the top of the pile breathing
xxxand the bones of the bottom, crushing.”
Allies came with chocolates and Democracy,
and saw the buried but alive,
just in time for war crimes.
“Dad, what did you do?”
Shaking like a lone October leaf,
he explained how he carried
himself when seeing science and status quo
“We shot those sons of bitches off the dozers.
We blew them to pieces; my .45 tore a German’s
xxxface into five slices of skull and skin.”
If there was any blood,
it was photograph black.
Dad closed the shoebox,
put the war back on the shelf
and got himself a beer.