as he materializes into the reams of silken gowns
clumped together in the closet,
the lieutenant colonel’s scabs open
once more,
bleeding into the frayed fabrics, dripping
moist bullets spotting the carpet.
he stares into a bruised dark,
his tongue creeping across his lips,
tasting soiled chap; the broken skin
lumped
across his forehead, flayed by shrapnel.
his uniform a catastrophic space, it flows
in a breeze
i, too, can feel.
goremarks tend to his medallions hovering
over his heart, glistening, even in this
low lamplight; it is cast by a single bulb
swaying loose
above him.
he cranes his neck.
looks up at it.
blinks. and looks
back to attention.
i drop the wormwood. i
swallow my heart.
“lieutenant colonel popper? is that
your name?”
my voice a swift glaze of
trepidation made
hollow.
his body disguises itself as a pile
of bodies. the wounds reek out maggot-juice
and carrion. his gaseous eyes, cataracts
protruding, they snatch out of the air vast
differentials; the contrast between his death
and mine.
his mouth words struggle to emit from
bleeding lips and
ragged teeth or what is
left of them.
the beard adorning his cheeks
flaps moist with mud. buried in it,
he resembles an architecture of
blind faith gone
stale.
“i used to be someone,”
he sputters, the saliva aching
from the ulcers of his
trench mouth. “i used to
be someone.”
“i understand.” and i do,
in a way. i take his calloused palms and
blanket them within my own. i bring them up to my lips and
kiss them healthy again. i tell him
it will be okay,
he is here,
he is here,
with me. and his eyes meet mine. and
he drops gruff tears
to the floor.
he tells me he doesn’t understand why
they left him there, in the muck of
piss-creeks, in the intestines rambling from stomachs
too familiar.
he was buried beneath dozens of half-faces
donned in crimson moonlight.
the noxious fields writhed with gunpowder.
the foxes had left long ago.
he tells me there’s nothing he could have done.
he says there was nowhere else to go.
so he stayed.
pressing his forehead against mine, i inform him
of the decision
to bring him back
to us. back to earth.
back right here.
blood froths dreamy from his ears.
the brass fragments are still there,
caked with bloodied soil.
his gaze falters behind me.
the stars leak through the blinds,
windows greasy with nicotine
sweat.
through the glass vibrates a single tone.
the sound of sirens throbbing
so faintly
in the humid south.
and a rumbling. and a comet’s highlight
rips through the foggy streets below.
lieutenant colonel popper smiles,
his enamel shattered,
his breath a cool mist of fate.
the comet disappears into the bedroom walls,
past the inclination of the night to
catch all that is missing
and bring it back.
past the grime: he was once dashing, and coy.
he asks me sweetly if this is heaven.
the sirens fade into the fray. i say
no, lieutenant.
this is much,
much worse.
-- Alec Ivan is a midwestern writer. He wrote PHOTOGRAPHS OF MADNESS (Back Patio Press, 2019) and THE TENDER ATROCITIES (Sweat-Drenched Press, 2020). His work has appeared online in publications such as Expat Press, don’t submit!, Always Crashing, Keep Planning, Citywide Lunch, and elsewhere. He lives in Indiana with his wife and two cats.
