Madigan General 1970

In the spidery one-story hospital with wings
laid out to avoid total destruction
if bombed by planes from the Rising Sun ,

war wounded and dependents shared
a splayed structure left over from WWII
smack between Army and Air Force bases

beneath the distant peak of Mt. Rainer
close enough to the Pacific so boys
could be flown straight from Vietnam –

that’s where my sweet boy was born
first dancing his tiny feet on the planet,
hands waving like a mad conductor,

sugar voice already singing candy.
Outside I held him in my milky arms
held him up to the lights-out night sky

and promised that this one
would be a warrior for peace,
this one would question orders,

this one would be in the battalion
of creation, be the lead singer screaming
come together and never know shrapnel

beneath his skin, never see bodies fly
through rice paddies or pick up pieces
of his buddies for Nixon’s sake.

It was all I knew then, all the vow I prayed
after fucking the life back into his teenage father
when he came back all caked in death

three Purple Hearts in velvet cases
while his own kept bleeding tears
when he picked at his crying guitar.