by Vern Fein

A university writing teacher

when the VietNam War raged.

I taught my students about napalm, 

displayed the poster of the naked

young girl screaming down the road 

her hands flung up in pain,

the “guava” bombs made by Honeywell Corp. 

sent metal into bodies until

they changed to plastic shards

x-rays could not detect, 

taught about the lie that the North Viets

had bombed our ship at Tonkin

to convince the public of war

against a tiny black-clad nation.

The youthful student eyes

stared up at me, supped 

on these facts like little birds

so I spoke all over the campus 

dropped the seeds of protest

in all those open mouths,

except this Chicago kid, Vito,

whose Marine dad was killed

in that nasty war, decided

to take his fists and bulk

and his tough, drunken friends 

to find Un-American hippie freaks

and beat them to a pulp.

One evening they found me alone,

surrounded me, one smashed

face away from preventing me

mouthing my words of protest,

when one of my students,

Doug, a giant football player,

who hung the VietNam girl poster,

which pissed him off, on his dorm wall.

He strode up to the Marine’s kid

and said he would wipe the sidewalk

with him if he ever touched me.

I am glad I taught the Truth.