Say Uncle

Joseph Green

On the lip of the cliff
above the tide pools where
the ocean always left enough of itself
to guarantee it would be coming back,

my father’s younger brother, home
from the war, hands in his pockets,
jacket unzipped, had the look of a guy
who hadn’t yet decided whether to jump

in or just admire the scenery. Waves
falling over themselves to get to shore.
Crashing into the rocks. Years later
he would say there wasn’t any wind,

that he’d leaned out over the edge
and spit. It was a steep, unforgiving drop,
but those were optimistic years, new houses
going up in rows all along the coast,

young couples buying them with VA loans,
making payments on Chevies, Pontiacs, Fords.
Everybody looking forward. And my uncle?
Nobody wanted to hear about where he’d been.