Frail Sister

“Beside the bridge off track, gone stray:

The English Call it War Aphrodisia, and leave it to the Brits to make strumpetting sound Shakespearean. If there is a God, and Sis I grow more skeptical by the hour, He's a mean one and is tending an Erastus-sized hole in my chest. Well, He just keeps scooping it out. I've been sniffing necks to find him again, fibbing into crewcuts, telling them they smell like piecrust when they smell like blood and mold and hunter and prey...Yesterday afternoon I saw a mound of children's bones and by nightfall I was singing, but today the thought of his strong, brown hands broke me.”