Invisible Scars
They've come back from war
but the fighting's not over.
They visit it in dreams, their
mind's eye replaying it all:
how the speeding car pulls
up, brakes burning, driver's
cell phone in hand, pressing
the single digit that renders
the morning's market buys
un-totaled, the black abayas
a flutter of shredded threads.
Later they will have tattooed
prosthetics, tell their pretty
blonde nurses where to look
for lost and longed-for pieces.
© 2017 Maureen E. Doallas
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