Operations Suite

I let myself believe

we had retired your desert

was a neon thundering that split

the tropopause

~

in two. Those first few

weeks without you, the baby’s

black eyes staring up

from the crook of my arm

while snow fell through

the elms. I too

~

am distrustful of any group

in lockstep—large

manipulations of starlings,

formations of them

on the parade

ground, reveille, reveille, and yet

~

if a plane is just a rib cage falling,

then a man is just a rib cage begging

~

over Kandahar. Your voice

tinny and small, ricocheting

I could never drink so much

as a whiskey without trying

to replace myself entirely

~

with anotherkindof woman

onewho wouldn’twait

~

for you through thunder

that growled

from the margins of the woods

as I stood

ankle-deep in a flood,

the doves promising your return

each spring. You can

~

lie to me this time—say

you’ll stay. Hindu Kush

rising from the horizon

like rows of frozen teeth.