I was never to his war
bloodied land, rubbled homes, shrieking wounded
but he brought it home to me upon my doorstep
the ugly desperation of those who returned
so haunted by not dying that death trailed them
whispering constantly names of the killed
it’s only the wind I told him again and again
he could not hear me through the endless moan
until one night I learned how heavy a gun can be
when you remove it from a limp hand
how futile comfort offered seemed
against the stark reality of a bullet casing
I never heard the shot
how do I say he lived, when he never left the fight?
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