Homecoming

My ba stands in our kitchen. The thwack

of a blade against wood, cutting the head off

of a fish for dinner. My ba escaped a war,

only to spend his life longing to return. He

talks often of sacrifice. Of ships on fire, of

skulls cracking like eggs. But the truth,

much worse. He misses the violence.

Wishes the fates would keep turning him

around and around. He stares out the

kitchen window now; a brown lawn fading

in afternoon light. The blood and guts

on his hands already starting to dry.