The Iowa Review - - GRAHAM BARNHART -

such eyes the wid­ows in Co­ri­oli wear —Wil­liam Shake­speare, Co­ri­olanus

Be­hind head­lights draw­ing darker night against the snow he re­grets say­ing Kind of like Afghanistan aloud.

How to ex­plain to his mother and grand­mother in the oth­er­wise silent heat of the car that sud­denly it had been spring for days

he heard the water run­ning out, dirty snow re­turn­ing to mud, Humvees crawl­ing thick tread into the cliff road. He­li­copters al­ways

close—far—thrum­ming hor­nets caught in the val­ley’s cupped hands, and Steve Prescott swivel­ing the mounted Ma Deuce

and say­ing ev­ery so of­ten feels like I cheated on my wife and now I gotta give her flow­ers— even though the hit had been another

team, and we were only stack­ing sewing ma­chines out­side houses with un-glassed win­dows like blank stares ac­cept­ing

a world where wid­ows sew their chil­dren clothes with nee­dles

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