Joanna M. Weston, A Summer Father

I went looking
for the footprints
of my childhood war
under rhododendrons
and cedars

I found math exercises
tennis rackets, ribbons
old hockey scores
and smudged, pulped, papers

we played follow-the-spitfire
ring-a-ring-a-pilot-gone
the bomber’s-bridge has fallen down

here’s one fair-lady-o
buried with no funeral
in the crook of a tree
hidden by blossom
so that no one could find me

for I am the child
whose bones were ground
to make bread for war

I looked for
my father in a field
but found only
his name
out in public

I disliked
his being shared
by beetles, swallows
and the glazed view of tourists

wanted to erase his name
from eyes
wrapped around the letters
carrying them
all over the world
like ashes
on the wind