What is your heart taut with, dear—
what keeps you silent,
looking over and past my shoulder
as if assassins wait behind me,
bows drawn and waiting
almost as tensely as you,
perched on edge,
unsure what to do next?
Me too,
me too. Perhaps there was no
next step, no bend in the road—
only the wet bog marsh
where I imagine us lying,
as you once did, patting mud
around your young body for warmth.
You were somewhere
you’ll never go again,
when everyone was new
and, for a moment,
the world felt too big for you.
But now your back aches in bed.
Your shoulder curves
as you slump in the chair.
You groan when you stand,
filling the air with noise
to remind us you are still alive,
still fighting—
but no longer sure
what for.
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