My husband

sitting on
the ledge of
heaven
or hell,

watching as the
shell of him
drinks warm Budweiser

and

is deaf
to our son's squeaks
of playing with
toy cars.

Daughter
draws a picture
of a restored home
full of colors and
fake smiles

that we show to our
neighbors.

I wish
his glassy-eyed stare
and hidden breakdowns

would've been

shot or stabbed
by the Vietnamese.

I'll pack our bags,
go to my mother
who smokes non-filtered
cigarettes and blows
the smoke to my tired face.

”What did I told you?
I knew he wasn't
strong, what a ******* mouse.”

Georgia and Matthew
eat melted strawberry
ice cream in the
disturbing silence

while I try not to create
psychotic thoughts.

Those eyes
that still see blood and
broken souls
- looking at
a black and white movie

should've been
torn apart
by the forks of hungry children.