she cries hearing your name
she cries knowing your not there
she cries at night thinking about you
she cries when she sees your picture
she cries not knowing if your coming home
she cries when she smells your cologne
she cries reading your letters
she cries when she hears your getting deployed
she cries when she hears your going to be gone for a year
she is constantly crying
she is your little sister....

I. Parade Square

I can still feel the blisters from the hotplate ground,
the tar off my marred body,
imagine my acid sweat coercing my eyes
to burn with an perverse, masochistic
fire for this
torture
my tongue could never profess.
Running or sprinting blind, and
then a rumble above, force open my eyes to
watch the undercarriage of the SQ A380
hang low like a
ladder.

II. Swimming Pool

Usually we swim here,
or get cooked by the sun,
but there was once we pumped eighty
because the FT was bored and wanted to go
home,
early.

III. Cookhouse

Pre-dawn,
we sit down half-asleep,
milo in hand,
a lump of oily I-don’t-quite-know-what on my plate.
Every table a section-full of once-boys
taking a glimpse at the outside world through flat rectangular
window panes that hang from the ceiling.
At 0600, Channel News Asia plays the National Anthem,
and I wonder why we don’t sing it
anymore.

IV. Range

It is going on two months in this foreign land
Two months of having not shot a single picture

A single snug trigger-click, snap-shot
Burst of colour – bang! – picture

Tangy black three-point-eight-two kilos that
Hang off me like a corpse-like appendage

Two months of wading through picturesque scenery
Lilac cirrus sky, or the sleeping shadows of silhouetted trees

And no chance to shoot any photos
But the picture of simulated ******

As I point and pull, hear the
Trigger-click of my camera go

bang.

V. Grenade Ground

When I picked up the little
inconspicuous
olive thing, and placed it in the pouch
next to my left breast, beside my
heart,
I couldn’t help but ponder
if that was how the Bali
bombers
felt like, moments before they
died.

VI. Beyond the Sphinx bridge

This is another world;
a world filled with so many dark
memories
I cannot write about it.
I would have saved you from drowning in your
waterlogged grave, except
I was drowning
myself.

On the long ride back
to camp,
I gazed into the distant twilight, thinking,
we may sit in the
same
tonner, but in actuality
we all find our own roads
home.

VII. Coy Line

When I shower I close my eyes,
feel the slow trickle of water from
the broken showerhead, and
imagine myself in a hotel villa, or
one of those luxury hotsprings.

When the lights go off I lie back,
gaze out at the orange floodlight that
shines through the panes,
illuminates my teary face,
darkens my world
to a quiet, uneasy
sleep.

VIII. Ferry Terminal

Every book-out
I let the man scan my card,
puff up my shoulders
and catwalk down the dock
with a sense of newfound authority.
I’m a civilian now.

Sit and hear the low rumble of the ferry
get louder and
louder
like a plane on the verge of taking off;
like a soul on the verge of
escape.

The flags fly at half staff
On this downcast day,
I can hear the twenty one gun salute
Though not so far away.
I can see the tears upon their face,
As they walk with your soul in hand.
I can see the marching soldiers feet,
As they place you in the sand.
There were no sounds of laughter,
There were no signs of joy.
He thought he was a real man,
But he was just a boy.
He could not fight the battle,
That was placed before his eyes.
He could not pull the trigger,
When he heard the soldier sigh,
All his dreams were shattered,
When his world came to an end.
All his loved ones gathered,
His family and his friends.
By Suzanne Kelch

She washes a dish, checkered blue
Sudsy bubbles trapped between pruned fingers.
A monitor sits on the sill,
And sounds of laughter carry through
Their voices piercing, high and shrill

The desert stretches for miles, tired, red
As he sits alone on his cot
Stealing a moment of silence.
The sand creeps into tents
Through cracks the soldiers forgot.

She is tired, so tired—but not enough to forget
That the boys’ field trip is tomorrow
So she packs lunches, a matching set
Identical, except for pickles on the one
Which the youngest can’t seem to swallow

He opens his dirt stained letter once again,
And takes out the photo hidden within.
Hand resting on fatigued knee, he looks down and sighs
At two gap-toothed boys, a woman, and a dog
Cracked  fingers tracing lips, resting in their laughing eyes.

Dear Lord,
Only you can see how I suffer
Tonight I pray you'll watch over my brother
When he is weak please keep him in your hand
Give him the strength he needs to protect this land
Be his light when he needs guidance
Please keep me strong when I can't stand the distance
It's a pain that I always am burdened to mask
I know it's selfish, but Lord I ask
There are so many others also willing to fight
Lord, please bring my brother home tonight

The flowers have reached their bloom,
But the beauty can't compare
To the day we walked through their buddings
Catching up and making small talk,
Trying to avoid the goodbyes to follow.
We hugged goodbye and I avoided your kiss
The lingering taste would be too much to bear.
And the happy music blasted around
As I walked away with tear stained cheeks.
A month without you, too painful to bear...
How will I survive these next years...

I can't tell you how much I miss you.

I haven't heard your voice, or seen your face in months.
We went from talking everyday, to getting letters every few days.
I'm sitting next to the mailbox, waiting on a letter from you.
Your letters are so short but hold so much meaning.
You are my best friend.
I wish you were here with me.
Please come back to me soon.

                                                                              Miss you a lot,
                                                                                      Jacob

They shoot seven rifles
three times
and every time it crashes against
your soul like a defibrillator
reminding your heart that it is
meant to be alive.

One.
My mama told me stories of the day I was born
and they always started with his arms
or his shoulders
because it was hard to separate me from either.

Two.
When I was a toddler I left a violet
crayon in his red pick up truck we called
“Beast” and I cried because I thought I had
ruined everything
but he took my hand and told me that
purple suited Beast quite well.


Three.
When I was five my bike broke
but all my cousins had one and they
wouldn’t take turns,
so he scooped me up,
took me to Walmart’s bike aisle
and told me to take my pick
and in one moment I went from the
kid left out
to the kid loved in.

Four.
He wrote me letters
every Valentine’s day
in scrawling handwriting
that started with “My Princess,”
and ended with
“your daddy sure loves you.”

Five.
When my uncle got married,
we went to David’s Bridal to
choose my flower girl dress
and I remember how he saw me at
7 and 27 through bittersweet eyes,
simultaneously his
and someone else’s.

Six.
When I got pneumonia
and he knew I was contagious,
he did not deny my pleas
to cuddle up with his
grandmother’s soft, pink quilt
and watch old musicals.

Seven.
The last picture we took together
he pulled me against his chest
and smiled because he still knew me,
he always knew me
and he brought me back to the shoulders
and the arms that first ushered
me through this Earth.

There is something about the clarity
of grief
and the crispness of a flag,
realizing exactly why one is hurting.
It’s not always so certain.
But, sometimes,
it is.
Sometimes, it’s so plain it hurts.
It is a casket for your father and the
shots that mean it’s over,
and oak,
bones, and gunfire
are pretty sure.