William Heath

The Vet
 
At a gas station it is the smell
of diesel fuel, at a construction site
it is wet clay that brings him
back to Vietnam, when driving
he keeps a nervous eye at any
tree line along the road. For years 
he dreads the 4th of July.
Walking in the woods he is wary
of pongee sticks and snipers.

When they tell him he goes 
upstairs and shaves his head.  
He’d done a tour in the Mekong,
been exposed to Agent Orange.
He believes in rebirth not God, 
between chemo sessions he lights
a joss stick, tosses the I Ching,
listens to the Rolling Stones.
Seven months later he dies.


Dad’s Last Days

The Pope today is too ill 
to say Merry Christmas in 
so many languages, Jimmy 
Stewart raises a weary arm 
to cameramen on his return 
to the hospital, I call Dad 
to wish him happy birthday,
Amelia says he still won’t 
wear a hat in the cold.  

On his deathbed he tells me
to take good care of my wife,
in the end it’s the only thing
a man has, but what son 
can understand his father’s 
last words, who were close 
too short, apart too long?

The final time I see my father, 
half-naked, dressing gown askew,
half-conscious from medications 
easing him out of life, I say, 
“Goodbye, Dad” and touch 
his bare big toe as I leave.

William Heath has published three poetry books: The Walking Man, Steel Valley Elegy, and Going Places; a chapbook, Night Moves in Ohio; three novels: The Children Bob Moses Led (winner of the Hackney Award), Devil Dancer, and Blacksnake’s Path; a work of history, William Wells and the Struggle for the Old Northwest (winner of two Spur Awards and the Oliver Hazard Perry Award); and a collection of interviews, Conversations with Robert Stone.  He lives in Annapolis.  www.williamheathbooks.com