contortion

My husband, in 1971, a whole 16 years before I was born:

Plodding his feet through snow, had trenchfoot

already taken hold? Thin boots, wet feet.

In Vietnam, where he had been, or Indiana,

where he was again, marching homeward.

No one picked him up from the bus stop that day.

If I could have, I would have been there waiting for him.

My husband, in 2024, a whole 7 years into our marriage:

Gaping mouth through his snores, had dreams

already taken hold? Thin cover, armchair.

In Indiana, where we had lived, or Alabama,

where we live now, sleeping in our home.

Someone—I—made a big dinner, and he is now full.

I was there waiting for him when he awoke