I presume Her to be in Kentucky this weekend,
with Her folks and Her sister's family.
I found Her sister on Facebook once,
and she looked just like Her,
even though I am sure Her
would disagree, but secretly agree,
which this hidden decision
stems from unique childhood angst.
How many non-fiction soldiers
can Her name?
Not counting presidents that served,
I only know of two:
my friend Ian and my grandfather.
I picture an All-American weekend
with Dale and Pat, even though I can't picture Dale and Pat.
Waking up cold and trodding downstairs,
family and conversation, lying about circumstance or telling them.
And errands.
Her is begrudgingly going to the market,
not confidently driving,
to pick up something someone forgot,
but seizing the opportunity to be alone
and introspective about being back home,
whatever that means.
I bet Her wants to skate on fake ice,
inside a warehouse of the Bluegrass summer,
but some obligation is getting in the way,
so she hides in Her Harrison Ford bedroom,
and beats Herself up a bit,
wondering what if
about so many things and moments.
Her only went because they paid,
and New York was starting to get too hot,
especially under the changing circumstances
she writes about in Her poetry.
Later, Her dad knocks on her bedroom door and reminds Her who
is here and why she must come downstairs.
Her dad wouldn't like me because I have tattoos,
even though I would take care of Her
and make Her laugh for many Memorial Days.