While he was gone, Mrs. Jeffers wanted someone around

who knew her son. So Mary went. Mostly to see

his trophy case. Mostly to trail the tension of her skin

along the etched brass that witnessed his victories.

Her palm cry quieted there, touching those lost spaces

inside his name. Mrs. Jeffers thought he’d joined up

for freedom. Mrs. Jeffers didn’t know her son.

She thought he would come home directly. But he didn’t

go straight home the day he crossed the line

with nothing but his name. Instead, he’d thrown gravel

at Mary’s window, and when she came running

to the yard, he told her why he’d joined. The recruiter promised

nothing more than a rifle, a backpack, and a hard time.

He told her no one had ever been straight with him before.

Then he kissed her. Kissed her like a man would kiss a woman,

after their children were asleep, if just that night,

his father’s noble battle lost, he’d held his body while he died.