A Tea Box, A Medal, A Bullet and A Bone

The house when he returned
was a foxhole without trees,

the soft bed made-up by my grandmother
a lazy pool coaxing him to death.

He slept on the floor, ate his meals
from a tin dish, watched my mother

skip from an upstairs window. She
looked up, dropped her rope and ran,

hid in a neighbour's back yard.
A policeman found her, white as a hung sheet.

"His colour is the colour of Burma" she said.
"His eyes are the eyes of a devil!"

In brooding silence my grandfather turned
the garden soil, walked the dog

in the rain-soaked forest. On bad days
his voice thundered down the street

threatening to squeeze the living breath
out of my mother if she was late home from dance.

One night, as he slept, she crept
into his room and reached for the tea box

that never left his side, seeking out
the father-seraph she knew must exist.

He woke, of course, still aflame with
dreams of his god-forsaken jungle,

and my mother almost paid for her
mistake with her life.

The tea box was hidden and remained so.
We children asked: What magic was contained

inside ? What horror ? What terror ?
It was said shamanic feathers and turquoise

eyes glowed in the wood's recesses,
that the box contained the ghosts

and scent of men who had killed
and been killed. My grandmother

said nothing. The war was over.

Best let it pass.

Years later, helping my grandfather clear out
his garage, I found the tea box on a top-most

shelf. He held it for a while, ran his fingers
along the rim, took deep breaths as the jungle

re-filled his eyes. "Open it" he said. I prised
the lid, looked inside - saw not ghosts,

not angels, no magical shaman's wing,
just a tea-box, a medal, a bullet, and a bone.