The days he's home are the quietest. My voice tucked in a box, slipped under my bed; I hear it dancing as I fall asleep at night. He sleeps through most days, stirring at 3am because he's not heroic enough, or maybe not the right kind. The deer hunters cap and pop buck shots in the field out back, sinking his stomach before he realizes he’s here and not there.
Autumn gusts leave him rattled, and during the day I gather sticks around the yard--weak arms snapped from their body.
Inevitably, they will be strategized into the stove.
I can no longer speak to him directly. I tend now to forget that words have two meanings: what I intend to show; what I wish to say. Instead, I craft comfort for voiceless necks. The crochet hook taps against my ring, a Morse Code clicking single stitch.
Hook/chain: your war wounds are showing.
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