That was my father’s story.
The one he never told. “Terrible things” he would say,
“terrible things.” Or maybe we never asked, didn’t listen.
My father, the stranger with the scratchy face
coming and going in his uniform.
Daddy went to War, like other daddies went to Work.
Where was War? Who was a broad? Was her name Virginia?
How long is a long time?
All I have is a few scraps, old letters, photographs –
the young black-haired man, smiling that lopsided smile
leaning against a plane in his flight suit with all the zips,
secret compartments where he’d have kept the log book I now keep.
The leather has started to dogear, to crumble,
but the writing is clear, the list of ships sunk.
It’s a strange chant that begins like this:
“Wasp, Princeton, Kirishima, Hornet, Shaho, Yura,
Chicago, Akagi, Atlanta, Sealion, Kinugasa,
Astoria, Mikuma, Kako, Northampton, Helena……