My father left school when he was fourteen
and joined the Navy—a fellow could do that
back then, lie about his age, doctor-up

his birth certificate, or present a letter 
from his mom, even if he had to doctor-up
that too. He came out a man, shaving,

all spiffed up, wearing better duds than he’d
ever been given as a boy. So, what seemed 
natural to him was to reenlist, but this time, 

man that he was, he went into the Marine 
Corps, traded one uniform for another 
to walk around in, cocksure of himself. 

He got into boxing. Every chance he’d get,
into the ring he went. He knew the four
corners better than most men know 

their own back door, the one they enter
and leave by every day. It was nothing 
to him, a broken nose, ten stitches, twenty 

stitches above an eye, shattered cheekbone,
a few thousand split lips—it was all better
than being a sweet boy with sun-bleached hair.

I got into the ring myself once, his baby girl,
lifted the top rope as he would have done, 
paced corner to corner, jabbed into the air 

just to feel power in my back, my arms.
I even tossed myself against the ropes 
to feel that sensation of being thrown 

back into the game. I got down on hands 
and knees, experienced canvas in my face.
I didn’t feel what I think my dad felt,

even though it was all there for me. I felt 
nothing, except the dark presence 
of his sheer stubbornness in youth.
                        

	this morning, the memory of hiding in a closet,
seven-years-old, my father in the kitchen of that
small California Court apartment, past midnight.
Across the center pathway, all the lights
of other houses are dark, and him,
with yet another freshly poured drink,
talking to dead men in his unit, back
riding waves toward Omaha Beach,
those rolling waves, the boat about to fall open,
that trembling boat—sweet mother of Jesus,
into cold water they went,
rifles above their heads. Have mercy, pray
for us all in the hour of our need.