Knots
Tim W. Brown
I still hear the BOOM!
of sixteen-inch guns
lobbing shells big as cars
toward the Korean coast
when I think how they
sunk you in a coffin
of battleship gray.
Or maybe it’s the CLAP!
of you boxing my ears
not with fists, but words
that began at age eight:
every post card you sent
while working on the road
said, “Be a straight shooter,”
meaning to pee in the pot.
Up until age twelve I told
my friends I wanted to join
the navy, drink beer,
get tattooed like my Dad.
But I was born a land lubber.
Pushing a lawn mower through
a sea of grass was for me
like breaking in a horse.
Shaking your head, you called me
a “left-handed Jap bazooka shooter.”
When I grew up, you still
believed I wasn’t “working
with a full sea bag.”
Now I see you tried to pack
a sailor suit in a saddle bag
built for a bucking mule.
Those sea dogs sure taught you
some fancy knots, one
you used to hang yourself.
Unlike you, none will lasso me.
