No Love Letter

No love letter.
Instead the army wife,
the combat mother,
falling faintly
to the porch’s surface,
the wood
a weathered red.

The officers approach,
their hats removed,
white, dove-hands
reach forth, but—
she’s already on knees,
dress a puffed out
seatie, her ankles stems
and then frightened
animal shakes.

The button-downed men
with faces of droop
wrap arms and pat backs,
their faces also wet.
I’ve never seen
anyone cry as hard as she,
and yet,
I only saw the back of her head.

The shoulders of iron,
the neck of steel,
her spirit leaving
gently behind a shell:

a 40s haircut,
red-heeled feet,

and oceans
of fallen glow.

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