You’re blind drunk, my mother said
as he fell through the door,
and sure he was, on this one day
when thoughts returned to war.
They march the men on Anzac Day,
in honour of that time,
and drown their sorrows and their fears,
in wet, forgetful sighs.
It was a boy who went to war,
so many years ago,
and still a boy who drinks so deep
of grief he barely knows.
The man may hold the reins of life,
for most of every day,
but still the broken child returns,
in shreds of drunken play.
They thought they chose to go and fight,
but Fate held tight their hands,
to lead them on that sightless path
where consciousness was damned.
They didn’t talk these wounded men,
who straggled back from death,
and when they could they suckled
at forgettings fulsome breasts.
b : lacking a directing or controlling consciousness <blindchance>
c : drunk