Women and war

Walk under foot,
under me, and understand
that I cannot play the violin anymore--
the strings are cut and I am
cut. And you should not be here so late--
drinking and smoking, and telling
stories of then. I was a girl, you were
a girl, and we thought we were
women. No doubt that the war played
its part in our parting, but we cannot blame
all on men. Death and change were indeed
everywhere, and our love was not safe from
those blasts. Perhaps we needed the change,
the distance, to teach us how to grow older and not
feel badly about it. It is difficult to explain what
was happening internally at that time, it was so
long ago. But I will say three things:
I am no longer angry with you, I do not wish
for you to stay, and I am still learning
what it is to be a woman-- in war and out.

I've discovered that life is a squash
that I've left in the cupboard for too long
and now has gone soft and grown ugly inside.

I take it out and try to cook it and make
it into something my tongue or husband might like.

The orange strings get tangled around the spoon.

I opt for cereal instead.

He is my placenta

Jesus has been kind with my slowness.

There is a lightness in his voice when we shower together.

I save him the pickles from my sandwich,
he saves my life.

We daydream about the baby in my womb--
he promises me nothing,
I say I understand.

A possible ending

I wonder about the spine of your love-
the snap, the bone placement. Where were you
last night? I never used pain

killers before I met you. A shiver
goes through your face when I ask questions.

I am not an epidural,
I will not make life easier.