A soldier in Iraq called with two weeks notice
to tell his wife he was now
a virtual hailstorm of chaos and uninterrupted text,
and that the old men finally got him -
he's a certified Isle,
with granny square afghans to match.
on the phone, she was a nervous inebriation of
golden poppies and pornographic eyebrows -
she knew he tended towards the experimental,
but this well worn territory
Prefixed with media barrage
alloted her vanilla boyfriends
and grand portico canopies.
"the world is changing"
she realized -
and after glows on the far ridges of America
would not be employed in her meat hacking slaughter.
so, her laughter, entirely undue to vagueness/confusion,
fell in with the lonely left over thumbs
of Hebrew hospitality.
Her husband's penis, waving like an anemone,
would miss her fattening walls.
-Bethany Price
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