Here’s the secret about war, she thinks, it’s such a bore,
government shacks, feckless roaches,
harsh shampoo if you can get it,
staticky radio tuned to cooking tips,
and worst of all—the community clotheslines
with your sheets and dresses next
to a stranger’s underwear
and even worse—
abandoned shirts and pants
hanging lifeless in the rain,
until the chaplain’s wife sends
them home with a flag and a note.

But once, his band played the islands,
and oh dear God,
we danced to String of Pearls.

For the World War II veterans still alive.

Selected byMaria Mazzenga
Image credit:Tim Evanson

Trish Saunders writes from Seattle and Honolulu. Her poetry and short fiction has been seen in Off The Coast Literary Magazine, Blast Furnace Press, Pacifica Poetry Review, Here/There, Silver Birch Press, Eunoia, Califragile, and Seattle Poetry Bus. Right Hand Pointing published her chapbook, "Last Note" in 2019.