The Wars of Men
Every weekend my dad takes my great granddad’s car for showing.
There are words here I don’t know.
My dad bruises, sorrow buried deep, he doesn’t share. Skinny boys with bombs strapped around their torsos.
My granddad’s scars hide within, jungle mayhem, Saigon falling.
My great grandad survived Bataan, barely. Skeletal body, but a poet’s soul. His words of marching and death, echo in earliest memories.
I am a girl lost in the wars of men.