He will leave again.

He will leave again.
Again, I'll be broken, a relic
of that young woman I was when
I stood over his bassinet and
hoped his rash would heal
if I changed to cloth.
……………………………………………………………………………………


He left it out
of sight, as if recalling
my refusal,
when he was a boy,
to buy him one.
The only evidence
it existed, a small
brown square of paper,
slightly buckled,
three holes shot
through at the heart,
lying on the table
by his will.
…………………………………………………………………………….







His head was freshly shaved.
A blue square bandage
on his shoulder covered
the small pox shot they all get
before they ship out to Iraq.
In days he'd be cargo on some army plane,
and I'd be in New York City listening
to his message on my machine.
I save all his messages.

………………………………………………………………………………………….












Last Mother's Day,
when he was incommunicado,
nothing came.
Three days later, a message
in my box; a package,
the mail room closed.
I went out into the lobby,
banged my fist against
the desk. When they
gave it to me, I clutched it
to my chest, sobbing
like an animal.
I spoke to no one,
did not apologize.
I didn't care about the gift.
It was the note I wanted,
the salt from his hand,
the words.
……………………………………………………………………..


Frances Riche