away.
I’ve seen armies marching over the wings
of your arching back.
Tiny joints joined in unison,
pitching tents in time to a high pitch role call,
firearms strapped ‘round waists
ready to aim and fire.
The burning in my stomach never subsides,
it ebbs and flows like ocean waves,
laps at the inner lining as a reminder:
the outline of your body—
absent
remains a cut-out in every paperdoll room of
our home.
-J. Morrill
