Home, 1970 (poem)

No one asked about the confirmed
kill or the rocket that just missed
four or five days before. The silence

the Monday you returned
from the war, it was dawn
and the roads weren't crowded

at that hour. You stopped at
your brother's and then went home.
And no one asked. No one.

No one asked about the blood
splotch, no one asked about
the sniper, the mine, Cambodia.

You took your first hot bath
in months and thought of that
whore in Cam Ranh. That night

you dreamt what became years
of your recurring Nam dream.
And no one asked. No one.

—John Samuel Tieman