Peace

Smile, Returning Warrior, the bastard angel

P.T.S.D. is waiting for you.

Just you.

He knows your soft spots & gets in through

your pores when you’re coming home from war

& think you're safe.

In dreams, his projectiles pierce your ceiling,

splattering blood on your bedroom walls.

He wants to break you, destroy you,

he hates you.

He gives you Technicolor days where you wait

& sleepless nights where you watch his troops

bombard your nerve center.

When explosions rip through your chest, it’s the neighbors

slamming a door.

Car bombs converting a traffic jam

into containers of meat.

A 1986 Pontiac Grand Prix

backfiring.

Rockets screaming over your head, a passing

motorcycle, an anonymous sneeze, a silent

ambulance.

Small arms fire puncturing your buddy,

heavy rainstorm rumble, fourth of July fireworks,

children popping bubble wrap.

Invisible hands throttle

you, razor fingers flay your flesh. Inflicting phantom

scenes of shrieking soldiers, draining you drop by drop

until everything you’ve been is gone

& you’re

alone

& empty.