To My Father, Painting His Soldiers

in the kitchen, elbows on the table,
a psalm: you’ve primed your brushes;

a platoon of infantrymen stand in rank and file
behind the bowl of fruit.

The clock is pinned on the wall
like a medal; for commemorating the stitches

on your neck, a crude trench
dug by the VC soldier in Saigon

who held a knife to your throat while his C.O.
performed brain surgery on Uncle Frank

with a .357 Magnum,
was how you put it.

Look through your tears,
falling from the tips of the brushes,

running in streams of green paint
down your forearms

to the scabs on your elbows.
Father, move closer to the window.

Joey Nicoletti

Joey Nicoletti’s poems and reviews have appeared in many magazines, including Aethlon, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Italian Americana, and Puerto del Sol. He lives in Ohio with his wife and dogs, where he teaches at Kent State University.