like shadow –
himself, but different.
Some kind of science fiction,
Invasion of The Body Snatchers.
Same body, sometimes.
Same eyes – used up,
inkwells that can't be refilled.
His fingers know how to touch wire
and explode, or –
sometimes he comes back,
war stuck to his shoes,
he drags it inside,
right over the welcome mat.
Sometimes his family
huddles like sheep.
Eyes shut so tight
it aches.
We bought him a war,
he sometimes comes back
all shadow,
footsteps like gunfire
up the hall, down the hall.
By Rae Rose
Previously published in Protestpoems, December 2010
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