Stroke Poem by Lowe Loup

The first time I got shot down
I was lucky
My hand robotically strikes a match
for him as he motions for more gin.
His mentholated laugh burns my nose
as I empty the bottle
into his waiting ice,
The second time..
He slurs-

I stop listening.
We've heard the story
every Thanksgiving.
The same helicopter rescue,
The same bullet wound,
but now he can't stand
to show the scar on his right thigh.

The glass falls from his warped hand-
He laughs while my mother brushes
the shards from his lap.
The chair changed him
from husband to burden
in less than an hour.
A man that flew fighter jets
now watches his wife
cutting his steak into tiny strips.