War Crimes

The 90 year old Could no longer bend or even lean Over His brother’s grave Stands in the sun with his planted cane At his elbow Tells me He hears his brother speak from the grass “Bobby, where have you been all these years?” Dad turns to me Says when he was 13 And the Army telegram arrived at the house And his mother and father tore it open On the Roosevelt porch He ran down Sutherland Street to downtown Ironwood With shock if not even a grin Wired across his face Shouting from the Walnut-split sidewalks “My brother’s been killed! My brother’s been killed!” Haunted By his youthful exuberance For all his old days thereafter Thought he was responsible For his mother losing her hair Nest unraveled by a storm For his father Never using a razor again Instead, each morning Rubbing expressions clean in the sink With his palms For the only thing Left standing In this near-abandoned mining town A fifty foot fiberglass statute Of Chief Hiawatha Gazing over the passage of centuries Never lets go of any soul No matter the crimes against humanity.