"Homecoming"


Kevin returns from his deployment by walking

out of the fields wearing his favorite flannel shirt

with the sleeves rolled up — he strolls into the party

like he never had a roadside cross with his name

attached — when his fiancée sees him resurrected

from the coffin of shadow cast by the old red barn

she vaults into his arms, kisses his red neck,

touches the scars on his hands like she is reading

a marriage license, and hugs him closer

than the dress she is wearing — his buddies

pop the tops of cans of BPR like they are bottles

of Champagne — they dowse them in a jubilant spray

until their clothes stick to their skin. Kevin’s dog

runs circles around the group, launching parachutes

of white dandelion seeds into the air like rice

during a wedding recessional — Kevin kisses his bride

and carries her to a chair in the circle of bonfire light.

His dad slugs him on the back and shakes his hand.

Kevin is old enough to look like his dad did in photos

from Vietnam — same crooked smile and hazel eyes,

same barrel chest earned from digging fox holes.

Kevin spots me on the back porch and I sprint

down the groaning stairs to meet him on the path

between the house and the workshop.

He lifts me up above the blooming lilac tree

that coronates him with a halo of pollen until

he sparkles like a saint in a stained-glass window.