She said goodness may lie within me,
even praised my gentle ways.
Her brother agreed, later confided
he wanted to kill me,
not that I would stop him,
choke off his Iraq-aholic dreams,
refuse to convulse on desert floor,
Rorschached maroon, death being
a mailman with bad news,
no one in search of letters,
always at a distance,
ignoring mail-call snarl,
it’s for you.
We all kill something —
by accident mostly —
smother it, then ourselves,
with guilt, even as we invite
our postal carrier in at Christmas,
serve up a shriveled fruitcake,
say, take rum-soaked bread chunked red,
have a hot toddy for your time.
She suffered, knew I am no warrior,
forgave mistakes, cut sand-blown ties,
absolved anemic love webbed in by life.
So I lie alone, wallow wounded —
no wonder clerks fake headaches
to avoid me in their line,
why I blocked her out, all her needs,
why self-pity whets my appetite.
I dream myself a Tigris killer,
move ghost-like through the streets.
I wear polyester, not fatigues.