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.