When I was two
my father came back from the war
in Europe and he sang to me
a Russian lullaby
he'd learned toward the war's end
when he began
to study Russian
I've no memory of this
but find it easy
to believe the family story
now he's been nearly
fourteen years in heaven
leaving me to think
about the many ways
we failed eachother
how I might better
have returned his love
have made an honest effort
to reach out
and meet him in the places
where understanding still
was possible
fathers and sons
it's an old old story
with enough variations
to fill libraries
the lullaby by Lermontov
speaks of battle
and a mother's pride and grief
when sons go off
to war
the army, son, will make a man
of you he told me
this during Vietnam
and I like Ferdinand
the bull who preferred meadow flowers
to the bullring
but I miss him
more than I'm ever likely to admit