Was poisoned with benzene, vinyl chloride, diesel fuel
and a bunch of stuff I can’t pronounce which took
twenty-five years to reduce my father to bed sores.
I drove him to Boston for chemotherapy when
I was 22 and he was 47. We stopped at a rest area
going home so he could lean out the passenger door
and puke. My mom rubbed his back which irritated him,
his arm lashing out, and then he apologized, wiped
spit from his mouth, looked at me behind the wheel
of his Oldsmobile, waved his hand to mean Go,
too exhausted for words. It was 1977, before the Internet
connected the deaths of so many Marines
the government had to fess up and send thousands
of letters to widows like my mother offering to pay
medical bills for her husband forty years dead.
He shut his eyes to savor a moment’s peace,
exhaled through pale, split lips as we drove away
from the rest area, away from the puddle
he left drying in that warm October afternoon.
