You came back to the USA, but you never made it home...
and yet, you're still around
for us to meet and greet and thank
or try to avoid, or to forget,
or try to join, in some vague sense of shame...
At what level of experience
may we try to meet you, back from hell
with decorations visible, wounds invisible?
What use are words - they just make us feel smaller and inadequate?
Just perhaps, to be there for you,
silent.
But there.
You're still around...but is life worse than death for you?
We don't like to ask; and we certainly cannot answer.
But you're still around, even just to remind us...
We the embarrassed. You're still around.
And God - God is not mocked.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thank you, Michael, for writing this poem. I'm a Viet Nam widow. My first husband was an army medic, KIA 1969. Amen and God Bless. CJ