Her life, consisted in this space. Pictures
plastered on every wall, of her husband; his hair
like candle-wax, sticking to his forehead; bright smile,
like the crescent moon, stretching to his ears. They’ve
been together for years; high school sweethearts.
When destruction came to them, he still promised forever.
Even with bravery upon his back, carrying stacks of
ammunition. He told her, love was a gun,
he knew how to use it, and made sure the safety
was no more.

Bang.

This house isn’t alive anymore,
no more family dinners, no giggling, only
brochures and trudged steps, exhibits on
what her husband left. His flag pierced with bullets
stained with blood; not for sale.
No more.
She kept this place conserved, like a museum,
catalogues explaining what nick-naks were
his favorite. She had his flag perfect triangle
an apology letter from the government,
too sappy to comprehend,
We’re sorry your husband’s dead.
Visitors bring her food, as if stuffing
her face will do her good.
She has the soundtrack of marching men,
bringing their knees to brick chests,
she has poster full with letters of
discrimination of war, as if fighting is the answer.
She cries in her museum, shaking, grasping
her husband’s shirt, his scent still lingering in the cases.
She screams: War should be no more.