letters from a war
BY CHELSEA DINGMAN
After another man’s name
found your mouth, after
the bodies laid down
until they couldn’t rise, after
I began to see men
as streets and mountains
and moving skies—I starved
just enough to stay
hungry. Not to kneel
before deep voices, reaching
for any word that didn’t
force its way into my mouth. Why
is my body still empty
with another inside? I used to think
I’d go thirsty to see you
break like a highway’s bones
under the winter snow. Maybe
mornings you forget braiding
thick bundles of hair over
old bruises. But I’ve forgiven
how your whispers sound
like regret. How a mother leaves
when the night is long. My belly brims
with someone, slight and soundless,
who I can’t refuse. I know now
how briefly we are beautiful. How the first
death, for women, is our own.
