Marching Orders

When my bro’s marching orders were truly received,
the result was much more than I could have believed.
For it came in a hate-letter he duly signed--
(and I happened to think, Where the fuck is your spine?)

O my brother, I guess you were feeling at ease
when your wife lanced your balls and kicked you in the knees.
She was irate at me for not buying a gift
and so you signed that letter, creating a rift.

It was Christmas a long time ago--peace and joy;
(for this write I now dredge even though thoughts annoy.)
I had just suffered trauma, intentional pain
by a Veteran’s doctor who practiced insane.

And despite being told of this news by our Dad,
when I showed up sans present the wife became mad.
Then upon her return to Virginia in pout
the great depth of her sickness left me zero doubt.

Dirty laundry is not the best poetry theme
as estrangement of family mirrors dark dream.
I was, “Poor specimen of a human,” she wrote;
for a brother to then sign is some sour note.

And in all of these years--almost twenty have passed--
it’s amazing how extra estrangement has massed.
Never once in that time did he seek to set right;
his, “Not really,” to Father left me to hock spite.*

I don’t care the inducement, the threat or the stew;
there are things in this life that you just do not do.
Thus with his signature on a letter of hate,
though he still has a pulse, for intents he is late.


28 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
June 28, 2014


*When I showed the hate letter to Dad, he call my brother and confronted him.
On the, “Poor specimen of a human being,” Dad asked, “Do you agree with that?”
Wherein my brother answered brusquely, “Not really.”  If was always through
father (who encouraged this, “translator mentality,” to my repeated objections.)
It was never made right with me; with our parents death, things only worsened.
My brother receives his marching orders and obeys--he has to live with that.