To the Mother of a Dead Marine

 Your boy once touched me, yes.
I knew you knew when your wet, reddened gaze drilled into me, groped through my clothes for signs, some residue of him—some lusciousness of mine that he had craved, that might have driven his desire for things perilous, poisonous, out-of-bounds.
Could I have been the beast he rode to war? The battle mounted in his sleep, the rounds of ammunition draped like unblown blossoms round his neck? Could I have somehow flung myself against the wall of his obsessions, leaving spells and curses on his tongue? Your fingers tighten, ready to engage the delicate hair-trigger of your rage.

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