December 16, 2021Still Attached
His foot, cast and wrapped
in gauze, toes sprouting
like sun-scorched weeds—
not even the worst
of what he refuses to call
his combat injuries,
since he was never in
actual combat, unworthy
of the Purple Heart merely
for being in the driver’s seat.
So when he wishes himself
dead, I try to imagine Adam
in the underworld, sulking
with Achilles, two players
ejected from the game.
How cruel they can be,
the gods, who know so well
our particular griefs: his
piss-stained underwear
piled in the corner, my shame
at his noticing my noticing,
how we speak of his luck.