The serial number on his left forearm
Tattooed as it was
With Australian army
And O negative
Should ever he be dying
In some foreign dirt
(god hope his arm remained)
He was at the table
No place set
Just her angry jaw
Her tired skin
Translucent with the weeks of arguing
He ate that dish cold
I had an abortion, Michael,
You’re married
To the fucking army
How would we ever compete?
I’m not dragging my kids from
Barracks to barracks
Waiting for you to die
Or worse, come back like this everytime
I. Can’t. Do. It.
Claire’ll be over later
I’ll get my stuff
When you’re away…
She loomed before him
Vast and empty
Her belly flat and tightrope taut
Acrobatic and daredevil
He walked the miles across the kitchen
In his mind
To her. He laid his head
Against her belly
His whiskers catching the fabric of her dress
But that was just in his mind
Instead he sat at the table
Tracing the light blue raised skin of
His left arm
And knew at last he’d killed someone
eleanor j jackson 