who went to the VA office every day,
sometimes to the hospital.
young men. i fell in love with one, blue eyes high and tight with a scar
that curled his mouth up to the left and ran
down beneath the buttons of his shirt.
his right leg ended at the knee, propped up by
a prosthetic
decorated with fish stickers from his little sister. (he would tap it with his can and call it his fish tank). in the back of the bus, the last part of the route,
i shoved my hand down the pants of his uniform and held tight to the
screws of his metal leg.
we stood against the doors of my parents' honda civic and his kisses would jar my stomach, like i could grow new skin to zip up his old scar
or
birth a new leg that could be popped on like a lego part.
i smelled like yeast those days and i would bring jars of captured fog to him
and send it, flowing, across his skin, even though he never let me unbutton
his shirt all the way down,
fog like the same bacilli i baked into bread every morning
could steal in and staple me shut into his heart.
at night he woke, and trying to hop quietly on his one leg, would turn on every light in the house (a blazing beacon) and check the walls with his fingertips for landmines and IEDS. i followed behind in silence,
carefully clicking off the
lights and
waiting for him to stumble.
author's note: i've thought about this poem for a long time. it's not done. it should be in a different form, but blogger won't let me.
-n
