Tonight's Poet Corner: The Fallen Are Not All Dead
The Fallen Are Not All Dead by Belinda Roddie He drinks cold soup from his battered helmet, cradling the makeshift bowl in his lap, his face spotted with the dirt of the street and the scars of the jungle fevered, napalm-stained past. His daughter's married now, and she's offered him a room. He won't take it because he feels like a burden dressed in imaginary camo and way too heavy boots. He thinks of his friends in uniform and wonders how many of them still walk. How many of them still speak. How many of them still breathe on their own. His medals are tucked into the back pocket of his jeans. They're tarnished like the onyx eyes of the ones he killed. When the flashbacks get bad, he curls up in the fetal position as close to the wall of the drugstore as possible. The manager always calls the police. The police always shake his hand and apologize for something new. Still, when he's steady, he pulls out two old photos - one of him with his wi