"Kilroy" begins with a familiar image.

Prologue

Me, before the war.

Memorial Day ‘41.

Holding a U.S. flag.

Just a little one,

the right size for a four-year-old.

I’m dressed like a rosebud,

swathed in pink crepe paper

so I can be a flower

on the grave of the

Unknown Soldier.

The twins are annoyed,

shoulders heaved in a mutual

sigh, eyes cast heavenward.

Johnny’s holding a wooden

rifle. Mother’s squinting

into the sun, mouth

open, hand shading

her eyes, nearly a salute.

Seven months later, war,

another baby, and Johnny

will sign up. But

today there’s a picnic to be had,

speeches in the park, everyone

waving those little flags

that are made in Japan.

Pictures, pictures and more pictures.

"Don’t move," my father warns.

He takes the same shot two

or three times. Insurance

he calls it. In case someone’s eyes

are closed.