Poetry

Coming Home
​by Andrea Wagner
Her words are rough, but hands
That aren’t mine scrub away
Flecks of muck I made
And dried up blood that sticks
Stubborn like wine stains

“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Hypocritical, I think,
But then again, I know I’d say the same
When she comes home tired,
Unraveling her own grimy bandages

It stings at first,
But when I look at her I smile
And think of all the photographs
That catch us unaware
When we’re both here, 

Alive.