When Irvie returned home to Chicago after D-Day,
he drove a delivery truck from the Union Stockyard
slaughterhouse to butcher shops around the city.
He steered that old truck, hauled the same smells
of fear he’d breathed for forty years, kept abattoirs
locked inside his temporal lobe, the memories
a tag around his neck—mines, German steel
tetrahedrons wedged in sand along shore, ramps,
barbed wire, shrapnel still black in his back.