Nights on Olmstead Street

Len Roberts

My father sits in the dark, rocking
his way back to Guadalcanal, to Guam,
cutting his way through canebrake, sipping
rust-water from his rifle's bolt, long-
soaking in the green bathtub brimmed
with ice to break the malarial
fever. Soon he will rise to bury again
his dead brother in water, so
they won't tear his gold teeth out, but
for now he holds my head against
his chest, the fine hands stretched
across the side of my face, the fingers
gently kneading my cheekbones, my nose,
the valley between my lips and jaw. He
is leaning down to make sure I am still
breathing, saying my name lightly to see
if I sleep. But I do not answer,
just lie there quietly in his bony arms,
knowing even then how hard it is
for him to set me into the warm bed,
walk silently out of the dark.