Hear no evil

Montana campfire. Cabin buried by night sky.
My father's past carved 50 years
around eyes gone half blind.
Finally he lets slip
one piece of a camouflaged life.
South Pacific, New Guinea,
second world war, Army directive:
Turn Japanese back here,

now, for good, or watch them swarm
Australia's beaches, Rising Sun
matching Coral Sea wave for wave.
There, then, desperate men
give war a new face. Obey orders to pay natives
two dollars silver for each enemy head.
Dad, back from regular killing, for rest,
for good, undertakes a new mission.

Bury their skulls, some on bamboo stakes,
others piled about the camp.
Carry them sleepy, two at a time, smiling.
Fill trenches-turned-graves. Fling others
into caves with decaying comrades
frozen in battle crouch, licked to death
by flames thrown in like afterthoughts.
Shovels cover memories deep in loam.

GIs, Dad, welcome new orders -- EARS ONLY --
but this exacts a fresh toll. Husbands
snip orchids listening to moonlight
from dozing children and wives. A generation
will hear no evil, detect no lies.
Dad finds it easy to slip off to sleep.
I drink sake all night.
Fend off my dreams with a carving knife.

Timothy Pilgrim