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Poetry

Coming Home

Victoria Lynne McCoy

Brushing his teeth beside her, he is not
beside her.  He sees the desert
of anguished faces in the soap dish,
smells the wrath of roadside bomb in her
blonde hair.  He moves the bristles across
his teeth as he should: back, forth,
back, forth.  He is deliberate
as he climbs into bed, pulls back
the foreign sheets.  When he undresses her
he looks anywhere else.  He is careful
not to press too hard against her body, now
damp with sweat, afraid of how cold her skin
may feel on his, how familiar those bones.

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