There is talk today, talk on the talk radio,

About the Taliban and terrorists and arms,

About assault rifles and their machine guns,

And semi-automatic pistols and I turn it off,

The radio, this car, and walk into the food store,

And I stand here, in the refrigerated aisle again,

The one with the glass doors and stacked dinners,

All of those boxes on top of boxes, ready already,

Remembering my husband, how he called food shopping

Stockpiling, when he was here, and not there, in Afghanistan,

Fighting a war, his own gun crossing his chest, like a promise.

And, sometimes, I wish I could stay here, in this cool aisle,

Because I don’t want to think about arms today,

Not piles of weapons found inside a house, or how

An arm looks when it is separated from a body and

Left on the side of the road, or the gun, that gun

That my husband will miss like a limb when he comes home.

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