Here it comes, out of the universe,
over oceans, mountains, high plains, 
following a river from its head-waters, 
down a gravel road to the front door, 306, 
a house as yet without telephone.

There she is, sitting on the edge 
of the made bed; it’s late morning,
beds are made by eight.  Telegram, 
balled-up beside her.  In her lap, a photo,  
a marine in white cap and dark uniform.  

He’s smiling. She’s weeping.   
The telegram looks weak, but the effect,
in total, is of soul, breaking. 
The noise it makes!  Little 
clutches of breath that won’t stop.


© 2007 by Sharon Chmielarz. All rights reserved.