Nights on Olmstead Street

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.