The Blood & The Bones

it was not death that took him
but as I lay here next to cold sheets
forgetting what his voice sounded like
or the way his face still seemed
somewhat youthful
after that first deployment
and the places his hands bruised best
when he returned
it might as well have been
but he’s out there running
riding a wave of pain
drowning in the warmth of brown liquor
telling war stories on borrowed pillows
to ears that don’t know the difference
between boasting
and a cry for help
and
I
am
here
grieving
him
wishing he’d stay gone forever
and yet still
that he might find a way
to come back
home

the blood
& the bones