Donal Mahoney


Found in an Attic: World War II Letter to a Wife


When I get home
things will be the same.
I haven't changed.

The sling
comes off the day
I get on the plane.

I'll be able
to cut the grass,
rake the leaves,

shovel the snow,
all the stuff I did before.
And every morning

in summer, fall,
winter and spring,
when we wake up,

I'll draw rosettes
with the tip
of my tongue

on your nipples,
await your orders to
bivouac elsewhere.

Nothing has changed.
I'm feeling fine.
We'll cleave again.

Submitted: Friday, June 06, 2014

Topic of this poem: war


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