The unarmored
shoes she dons
leave space in the toe
for a soul. A phantom
hanging on her thigh
slips past
the mind’s
control.
Circles she’s in
wheel slowly.
She cracks jokes that go over
like lead.
The flag once borne
on a shoulder
now fatigues a frame
by her bed.
Eyes that once
were beside
watch her recede
into light; pills
the VA prescribed
count down
like rounds
in a fight.
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The Word Became Flesh and Picked Up a Hammer
A year and a half ago, the College of St. Joseph the Worker, a new Catholic trade…
“Ecclesiacide,” Then and Now
Pardon the Latin-rooted neologism, but if “patricide” works for murdering your father and “regicide” for taking out…