Shrapnel

The tour began in the South of Italy.

He fought to the north, and then

by way of England, Sgt. Edward T. Weleski

charged Omaha Beach as

the Rangers scaled the cliffs.

Somewhere in France

a grenade’s shrapnel sent him

to the hospital, but only till

the Reich broke the line

and the wounded went to the front

to push back the Bulge

if they could hold a gun and stand,

which he did, until frostbite

wrecked his feet and sent him home.

He would have done it again.

War is always.

Necessary, sometimes.

But we must never forget what it brings.

It does not bring clarity.

It does not bring peace.

It brings my grandfather back to France.

Unconscious on his deathbed,

that shrapnel still in his body

a half century later,

assembled grandchildren hear

Sgt. Edward T. Weleski

anxiously report to his commander

even as his wife holds his fading hand.