BLOOD ON THE WALL
That war has visited
my thoughts often
in the years
since our men came home,
saturated with Agent Orange,
blood staining their hands,
hearts, and minds,
to fight yet another war
born from the rage of
our country turned
inside-out.
I think of the ones who
didn't return.
The boy from history class.
My best friend's brother.
Those two men shrapnelled
on my husband's ship.
My throat closes,
won't let me name
any more.
The Wall.
Littered with names...
too many names.
Does their blood
weep from it at night,
seep into the grass?
A chance taken,
to touch home turf
one last time?