but the front pocket of his soul
where he keeps his heart on his sleeve
no matter how much it bleeds.
He who breathes to serve those he knows
and those he does not.
To give his gory heart to those he loves
and to those he does not.
For when his country gets hasty with war
he stands at attention.
Hands at his sides, they are prepared to press triggers,
throw grenades, and hold orphaned children.
They are prepared to get dirty, callused, stained
with the blood of his friends, and if fate calls,
they are ready to bear a nail in each palm.
He, who they see as SEAL, captain, sailor,
man of the people, student, leader.
I see brother,
keeper of secrets, comic relief,
my blood and best friend.
I saw hero, long before his body was decorated with uniform.
Before his hands knew how to salute or shine his shoes.
Long before he could run 10 miles before sunrise or
tread water with a rifle above his head.
He was hero when he kissed my cheek with ketchup on his face,
when he played dress up and ate play dough
under an Ikea picnic table.
He was solider when I couldn’t say his name.
It is not in his genes to see his life as
an atonement
for his country,
family, friends, and strangers.
It is in the abyss of his soul
to be so willing to call himself
a ransom.
He is son, he is brother, he is friend.
He is wolf.
He is lamb.
He is solider.