After The War

Seashell shocked
with insides soaked
in Irish whiskey
you advance
on Pacific Northwest cold front
twilight.
The landing craft lights
of the badger hole bar
glimmer and dimmer.
Five hours crossing the channel
of goodbye
leaves you on a smeared beachead
where every footfall is
a fucking Hillary Step
in a shallow world white out.
Rain shower ordinance
ventilates your skull
and pulls the human
right off your
slapped dumb expression.
This is what it feels like
when you can't feel.
This is what you give
when the flags and bunting
get billeted to the furnace,
the dress blues are sent home,
and you're engaged to
lay out the last full measure
in her foreign field.

Nothing.

After the war.
You'll lay low.
Keep quiet.
Get acquainted
with emptiness
as you
slip through
the last links
on a chain
holding a
Hand of Fatima
and a broken
purple heart.