Published on: 2/12/2008
My Husband, You Are Home
I sit on the couch's curb,
my jaw set on control.
The tears are burned from my eyes,
and my mind filters the pain.
Your urn's blue tiles, patterns of shades,
cool my fingertips,
inside the scrap metal slivers mix
among your ashes.
They have come, in their dress blues,
knowing that they exist only because of you,
to tell of the last six months of tent-living
and the reality of war, and to gather
tales of humor and pride
offered by family and friends
to make the essence of the man
living in their memory, real.
I watch them, picking the ripe stories of your life,
and would gladly trade anyone of them
to have you back.
I wish, just this once, you had been selfish.