wait for war

Longing is the only language I can wield with fluency,
and I need to draw blood
the same as I need to get the tears
off the bottom edge of my glasses
and straighten my brow
and stare forward like a soldier.

Like a soldier.
I know the dumb dark mazes
in the drill sergeant's pupils
the same as I know the reassurance of knife-hilt against knotted muscle,
the cold-heavy grip of a tired and scared stomach,
tighter and wetter with every distant bang,
the ugly color you can see better
when honor and anger bleed together -
the wait for war,
and that voice like a letter from home:

I have held all this in my head for so long
it has started to become me.