Poetry
Coming Home
by Andrea Wagner
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. |