You're older now, soldier.
Your wars aren't the same.

Dust and the blinds they collect,
days that feel red, almost enviable
in their passion.

Shaky hands again, dry mouth
again, sirens singing low in
the black water day after day.

Death should mean something.
Encore for the epitaph!

It isn't real, but it is. It's replaying
in your head. It isn't real, but

it happened.

the only difference between a safe house and
a prison is intent,

so don't lie to me.

i've bent bobby pins enough to pick it
apart,

the too close for comfort, the itch on your back,

how we tally it up, rally the rebel yells and the
outliers like broken lighthouses.

train tracks out of me, tack the endless question,
tackle me to the ground and start over.

I have enough scars, so forget it.

the food is on fire, but at least it's cooked.

cool metal handle, lukewarm water and smoke,
candle-like in the candlelight.

what was raw before is now ash. you've
made a difference, but

was it an improvement?