It doesn’t seem right, cousin,

that you’re over there, nineteen, fresh

out of boot, and lugging around

a forty pound fully automatic machine

gun—Uncle Sam’s strong arm

 

of death.  I feel, sometimes, since I’m older,

I should be the one over there.

But I have no excuses; excuses are weak

defending inaction, so I’ll do the only thing I can:

 

mail care-packages stuffed with cigarettes,

Twizzlers, Playboys, and snuff

as if that makes up for the holidays.

 

What does proud mean

from someone whose only wars rest

 

in books?  I’ve never watched my friends,

the marines you call brothers, with navy corpsmen

peering into their gaping chests, bandages in hand,

trying to forget their training for fatal wounds.

 

I’ve never been scared

enough to call my dad daddy.