SAN FRANCISCO 1918.

A WOMAN REMEMBERS HER LOVER AWAY IN FRANCE FIGHTING THE WAR AND WONDERING IF HE WILL RETURN.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You hadn’t heard from
Wesley in months, not
Since his last letter

 

From France. War messes
With people’s lives, he’d
Said. Maybe he was

 

Dead, you muse, taking
In the street’s busy
Scene, the sunshine, the

 

Heat, the touch of sun’s
Warmth, the passing noise
Of traffic, people

 

Walking by, talking,
Living now, seeing,
Feeling life’s hold, just

 

Like you. But Wesley;
What about him? You
Recall his last kiss

 

Just before he went,
That final embrace,
Those last words. You said

 

You'd remain faithful,
Wait for him, prepare
For his return, but

 

Bradfield had you in
His arms last night, him
Kissing you where once

 

Wesley had, making
Love where Wesley once
Slept and made love in

 

His own intimate
Fashion. War messes
With people’s lives, he’d

 

Said. Maybe he was
Still out there, living
Not dead, waiting for

 

You, dreaming of you
From some deep dug trench,
Sensing death’s feel, death’s

 

Stench. You open your
Eyes wide and walk on,
Sensing last night’s toss

 

And turn, kiss and burn,
Hold and sleep. Wesley
May return, soldier

 

Back from war, wounded
Or not, your promise
Broken. Keep your dark

 

Secrets, all things keep
Still, no truth spoken.