American River Review 2019 - Flipbook - Page 59
Old Wives’ Tales
Marcie Mallory
He’ll beckon you close, finger half-cocked like him, and you’ll come
because there is no rush that beats the ass end of a gun.
Lips better suited to kiss a bottle of Jack than the mouth of Jill, and
you, a woman with long soft lashes holding a child, no longer mean an
explosion of heat from love, but hate, and he hears a voice moaning his
name, not in passion, but pain.
But the world can’t see behind those hard eyes and Copenhagen smile to
the child left behind.
They told him he must fight for his country, and when he is done they’ll
throw him away like the old parachutes tangled in the trees, after flying
too close to the sun.
And they used to sing to him “Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die,” but
there was no medal given for someone going alone in the middle of the
night, ‘TIL VALHALLA’ carved into his chest, and his rifle at his side.
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