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