Your fear of water pulled me up
by my hair, thumb on throat
ready to press and a look in your eye
that I ignored knowing. I bet
that usually works.
.
You boys wear your war
like four stars, three
for wounds, one
for the good measure
of the victim you insist
upon conducting.
I know a woman
reeling post-traumatic stress
across three states. They
call a man’s armed combat
and we call hers family.
She didn’t get to go home
when her tour was over.
.
I laughed at your thumb
ready to kill me and
your cold eyes
light years away.
You boys, always insisting
your games are bigger
and harder
or meaner.
You are always
more interesting
to yourselves and I have
never feared water
in any form.
.
orphan poems 