Exit Wound

From a collection of war poems

I awake to a clenched fist stomach and

hold my breath hoping it will pass.

I view the broken mirror from the doorway

then close my eyes to enter the room.

Our bed was made in paradise, the time before…

Your white shirt hangs unblemished, tie unknotted,

your shining shoes arranged in order,

the hazy photograph white on black to touch.

I cling to myself, a stranglehold on a life, not mine,

and tell myself the aching comes from a heavy heart!

Don’t look to the yard – the marching in my head –

bleach away the unmoving, tarnished memory.

I go downstairs then inch my way around the wall.

Don’t look to that place, keep your feet away!

I make it to the kitchen, but the vision of…  …  …

is like an invisible squatter scratching at the door.

I cannot stay here, for every room

is a kaleidoscope of flashing images,

and the ringing silence presses in on me.

But how can I leave you here with them, my love?

The only movement now is from within, not mine.

I could never kill, but know behind the bidding,

unquenchable eyes to come will always be the demon stare

imposing, bearing down and drilling into me.

I am sick, I am worth less than a discarded match,

struck, scorched, extinguished, outcast…

And so I look to the yard one last time

for there, in you, lies my exit wound.