Soldier's Girl


It rains and we drive
through water—
velocity smears
against the windshield.
“Follow it,” I could say,
back the way we came.


T-shirt clad
and tagged,
he sits
across from me.


And that
bandage-white arm,
freckles cluster to discarded casings,
is taut upon the wheel.
Study these—
most trivial of scars,
IDs of faceless skin.
More durable than ball chain—
I think up stories
to recognize
each one.

                                                                              Constance Renfrow