you asking me about how I’ve been

as the sun beat down

and we talked about nuclear war.

You said you didn’t believe in it,

and I strained to understand

why: for you, the man of war, the

man whose body is his temple,

the man who will fight to the

death. You loved the thought of

victory, the thought of war, of pain,

of triumphancy. And I sat there

in the swimming pool while you sat

on the edge. I paused. Then it

occurred to me: you would want

a method of fighting more direct,

slower, more painful, more personal,

than a nuclear war. You’d want to

fight them one on one, man to

man, with your fists. And your eyes

lit up. I was beginning to understand,

now, only years later. I’ll remember

you with the American flag in front of

your house, and your love of battle.

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