Nathan Ruyle
Barricades
I.
Massive he sat
in his old, worn chair,
his face lit by T.V. light.
Snertz, his little yapping dog,
watched me from his lap
with a menacing grin.
I always stood quietly by the door,
as dad talked with him about
the crops or the hogs.
He chewed tobacco incessantly,
a huge black wad
bulging in his lip-
leaning every few minutes
to spit brown juice
into a coffee can.
I remember his ears best of all,
the biggest I have ever seen.
I often stared at them in awe
as he sat there so calm,
rooted like an ancient tree.
II.
Uncle Byron was dropped
on the Omaha sector of Normandy Beach.
Planted in the seat of a bulldozer,
he cleared away barricades
as bullets shot the handles from his hands.
The few men who lived to tell
said he had an angel on his shoulder that day.
How else could the machine gun spray
have missed such an easy target?
III.
I did not go to the funeral.
Dad told me he looked so thin,
lying there in the casket.
The cancer ate nearly everything
but his bones.
His skin must have been hanging,
his ears drooping.
But in my mind he is still huge,
moving slowly up the beach,
calm and fearless,
even after his angel had fallen.