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Tardive Army

Devon Sova

I belong to an army
that
(usually) doesn’t kill people.
(Probably no more frequently
than the rest of the population.)
And we don’t
(usually) rape people
and we don’t
(usually) cut people into a thousand different pieces (at least not literally)
and we don’t
attack random people in the grocery store (usually).
We don’t eat babies (ever).
But we do
cry
when our children
go off to kindergarten
and at
those abused animal commercials
on TV.
(Yes, even some Army people cry.)
And we do trip
on cracks in the sidewalk (just like anybody else)
and we have
our favorite sports teams (just like anybody else)
and we do celebrate
being able to organize
a word salad
into sentences
and sentences into chapters
and chapters into fancy dinner salad entrees (books).
Jumbles of unrelated thoughts
into
coherent emails
worthy of renown (it takes work).
We do celebrate
each day
without voices (telling us
to scrub the kitchen floor again
or
try a little something different with our makeup
because
“you’re ugly'
or
cover the electrical outlets so the government can’t hear
(or something as equally tedious
and banal)
and we try our best.
Oh yeah,
and we don’t
rip apart kittens
with our bare
teeth.
But shaking
and winking
and trembling
(like most soldiers)
we fight.



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