I can’t be certain,
but waiting in breath-held clouds
while the sky cantankered on the knoll
I was surely petrified.
When later I fought to rise
from knees wasted in prayer
my robe caught on the buckle
of the lone soldier’s obstinate shoe.
Salt tears, searing pain
from your desperate wrench
and the high price of absolution,
hung, sharped, in the setting night.
And we will never be away, or will we?
Can we ever utter gladly,
Now we are done with this?
For the home we made together
is still reflected in reddish water.