by Marina J. Neary
For three nights I slept
In the warmth of my own arms.
There hasn’t been a single bruise on them
Since he left for war.
No need to wear a long-sleeved blouse anymore.
God, I wish he’d just get killed.
Hear that rustle outside?
The bird’s mangled wing still twitches.
Copyright © 2010 by Marina J. Neary