To Whom It May Concern
by magique

Her heart pounds, her fists clench
Tightly around the cream letter, a letter she
Had hoped never to receive, a letter she
Cannot bear to read:
‘…To Whom It May Concern…’

The war was not, in the beginning, a fearsome thing.
Newlywed and happy, nothing could dampen the spirits
Of a woman, glowing with love.
She never thought it would affect her:
‘…I need to go…’

The letter now rests on the kitchen bench, she sits
In his chair and stares, willing it away, willing its contents untrue.
He had never set a foot wrong, never brawled nor
Broke a heart, but Death chooses randomly:
‘…he fought bravely…’

He left gallantly with a grin, full to brim
With ideas of fighting and sacrificing in a foreign land
For a better world in six months time,
He lay rough hands to her belly:
‘…for my country, for our child…’

She crosses her arms, uncrosses them, then crosses again;
Reaches, pauses, withdraws, repeats;
Sighs, cries, buries head in arms, and finally a desire
To break from ignorance makes her reach and grasp:
‘…sincere regrets…’

She tried to stop him; white hands against red walls,
Blocking the exit until bodily removed.
He stood, silhouetted in the doorway, that night,
Pressed chapped lips to wet cheek:
‘…I won’t be long…’

She tears it open, eyes scanning;
A keening wail:
‘…dead.’