War Bride

My Daughter,

They’ll line you up with flags and rifles, swords depending on the branch, but you can’t love a man in uniform until he’s out of it. You’re not his mother. You’re not Jesus. Just throw your hands up. But not in praise. Get him on his back. Dim the lights and make him wait. He’s been across a desert or two and dreams of the jungles his father crossed. All he thinks about is water, how to cross over or else between it. Make yourself an oasis. Let him scan the horizon, rise after rise, until your face breaks. Then bury him with your body. Let him drink you in. He always smells blue like steel and aftershave. He’s too gritty. You only can scrape raw until you melt away against his teeth. Say his name. He won’t answer, and he’ll look away. He’ll look back and push a little harder. It’s okay if you’re okay. Pull up your heart and stare out into the uneasy rockets and starbursts of night. The sun will take him away again. The wind and endless black seas and hopelessly shifted sand will ferry all but the slightest piece you hold into far-off conflict and death once more. He’ll glance over his shoulder and smile, or grimace. Wave. Weep. He’ll miss you, but he won’t stop. You’ll carry on. You have to, always.

Keep love,

MARVIN SHACKELFORD is the author of the collections Endless Building (poems) and Tall Tales from the Ladies’ Auxiliary (stories, forthcoming). His work has, or soon will have, appeared in The Kenyon Review, Wigleaf, Hobart, and Tar River Poetry. He resides in the Texas Panhandle with his wife, Shea, and earns a living in agriculture.