The devil’s salted the image
of your half-gone face in my hands
to the back of my eyelids.
I sleep like a statue on fire.
While the wicked rest as though
they were back in the womb.
I’ve been home now 18 months
and still carry my .45
waiting daily for retribution
for this time on Earth I don’t deserve.
My first day back I saw your wife.
She didn’t weep when she confessed
she’d give three times her widow’s pay
if the cannon could have caught me instead.
Any decent man would know
when to take off his funeral coat
how to carry that weight
and proudly go about his day.
But the only peace I find
lies between the oiled clicks
of the spinning cylinder
of the gun I took from your holster.
God take this memory.
Or else I’m coming home.
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