Work Text:
later.
The night of the day your husband
leaves—shuts the door behind himself
whisper-soft, suitcase in hand,
one half of the mint-green leather
luggage set his cousin gave
as a wedding present—
That night, you’ll sleep
on the floor of an empty nursery,
and you’ll dream of a war
you never chose to fight.
/
now.
“I can’t,” you whisper,
head in your hands,
a sob half-caught in your
throat. “Joe. I can’t.”
From across the room,
your husband looks at you
like you’re a stranger wearing
his wife’s skin.
/
earlier.
(for a year, a stranger
did wear your skin: a soldier
not-of-the-Lord held a blade
in your hands, and with your hands
she cut down other puppets
like you.
it’s in your blood,
the thing that let her wield you.
it's in your blood,
and it ends with you.)
/
now.
Your husband says,
“But you won’t tell me why,
will you.”
Your husband says,
“You told me you wanted them,
Caroline.”
Your husband says,
“You promised that wouldn’t change.”
/
later.
On the floor of that empty nursery,
you'll whisper a prayer of thanks
for the only thing heaven did
to earn your gratitude:
thank god thank god
thank god you fell
before I had children.