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Stories

He has the best stories: 
the Lieutenant with those ears, dried-deaf 
and in a jar, the wordless whores, 
the blood mist on his skin in patterns 
like a cracked tattoo.  The green 
and pungent whir of jungles 
he might tell about back home 

in Arkansas.  The soldier has all the lines 
but the woman remembers him 
fresh from bucking hay, he held her 
tight.  Recalls she prayed him 
out of sight and wondered how she'd wait.  
And if she didn't? Who remembers 
now, for eighteen months 

at eighteen, if her time went fast or slow?  
Anyhow, she can't complain.
Nothing leveled or pillaged in Bee Branch. 
No landmines.  
Just-and for a long time after-
his best joke's on her.  She always says
he breaks her up.

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