MIDDLE EAST VETERAN’S WIFE
BY KARI GUNTER-SEYMOUR
Sunshine finds you on the sofa,
heat inching forehead to chest,
stillness with a tremble of movement.
Sacred in that landscape,
where sleep knits real and unreal.
They say your mama was a whisperer,
reaching out to stray or wounded.
Not just dogs and cats, but crows,
mice, once a raccoon.
Her eyes, that touch,
silent words from a language
she somehow knew she had—
for wellness or the good death.
Soon he will wake,
stumble from the bedroom.
You will love him even as he screams,
a rapid fire of bitter words, despair
like fever dampening his upper lip,
eyes feral, memories in flashes and arcs,
chaotic, like mongrels
spilling through a torn fence.
He imagines himself as being held
in some kind of pen, waiting
to be released back into his life.
Edging up, you’ll breathe his name
like a secret, reach out, give off a glimmer
of something like light, or hope.
Gyroscope Review 16-4
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