I imagined being a widow too many times

At the grave site mourning what lies below

Telling our children that he is gone, gone.

But also weaving the halls in a foreign hospital

In Kuwait or Germany.  Halls that wrap around

Me like a snake like the news that he lost both

Both of his legs until they bring me to him and

He is still my husband who I married.  For better

But the worse the worst is definitely here now.

There are degrees to widowhood.  There’s that

Or there’s this.  When my husband comes home

Safe in one piece but different.  So used to war and

So used to holding his gun that he has forgotten

How to hold me.

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