It means the moveable stays tied.
Lockers hold shut. The waves don't slide
I see my husband shooting in Platoon,
and there he is again in M*A*S*H (how weird
to hear him talk like Hawkeye Pierce), and soon
We dreamed of glowing children,
their throats alive and cancerous,
their eyes like lightning in the dark.
For weeks, I breathe his body in the sheet
and pillow. I lift a blanket to my face.
There's bitter incense paired with something sweet,
He kisses me before he goes. While I,
still dozing, half-asleep, laugh and rub my face
The dog and I are first among those things
that will not be deployed with him. Forget
civilian clothes as well. He shouldn't bring
Tomorrow he would leave again
and I thought why not remove
his clothes once more, fold his shirt
One orphaned oak leaf from his uniform.
Loose change. A pair of collar stays. A tube
of mentholated chapstick going warm.
Squint a little, and that's my husband
in the photograph, the sailor on the left—
the one wearing a rose composed of ink
and the Little Bo Peep who stands