Shara Lessley, 'The Explosive Expert's Wife"

He comes home from the range scorched in dirt;

home from the office, a stain on his suit.

His nails are chewed.

He enters the house without saying a word.

He’s jetlagged again. He’s got blast-

dust the length of his forearms and hands.

Back from Sa’dah, he’s got sand in the shanks of his boots.

He says, Sorry I’m late. He’s come home

just to pack —a guard’s found C4

stashed in a DCA trashcan.

He needs a haircut and shave. (It’s been one of those days.)

He says, This won’t show up on the news.

He’s been sorting evidence. He has fresh orders from the president.

<span style="color:#323232;">                        He says, I do this for us.
</span>

They’re booby-trapping pizza boxes and books.

They’re rigging plastic cars so kids will trip the switch.

They’re something else, he says.

He’s on edge again.

He promises to be home by six. He promises not to miss

the latest round of tests. He’s holding

a daffodil-tulip mix. He shakes his head, When did we run out of limes?

<span style="color:#323232;">                        He claims, It was pilot error.
</span>

He claims, No one knows. He asks, Did I get an urgent message

from Colonel So-and-So? Straight from the Pentagon,

he makes one drink after the next.

He wants to know what’s for supper.

He asks if the oil’s been changed.

Screw what Fox and CNN say: It’s perfectly safe to travel by train. Screw what happened on the southern coast -

The casualty count could’ve been higher.

<span style="color:#323232;">                           He's leaving for Kabul again,
</span>

this time for sixty-five days.

(It’s better for us than Baghdad with overtime and haz-pay.)

He’ll need shaving cream and toothpaste, fresh undershirts and socks.

He’ll need a ride to the drop-off point

near the strip mall’s outlet shops. He’s filthy from hosing the tech teams’ Hazmat suits. He’s going

to take a shower. Friday, they’re predicting snow. Careful, he warns, the roads will all be slick. He gives thanks — the chicken tastes just right. The dog jumps on his lap.

He strokes my arm, asks Later tonight?

Napkin crumpled, he pushes back his plate —

Now tell me everything, he says, about your day today.