Teddy dreamed of being soft.

When he wasn't squinting, lest the white hot Jesus eyes seared his retinas,

When he wasn't floating on a cherry soda stream of delicious pain,

Decadent boba tanks floating by, headed to the yawning mouth of the Tasmanian Devil,

Or Bruce the shark,

Or somebody else with a really big mouth and only good at subtraction [war]

 

When he wasn't drawn with your very hardest pencil as Lieutenant Theodore Geoffrey, all sharp lines and resiliency,

He wanted to console children, and hold puppies with his big hairy arms...

He missed his arm hair the most.

It was like wheat swaying with his every breath, sheared down to the skin, or blown to bits.

Erosion, he thought, or maybe an earthquake, little flagging pieces of skin hanging off of his arms and his torso,

Sending him into wracking spasms of melodious pain,

Waves of hellfire flames.

He studied his wounds carefully, reckoned they looked like peaches.

Peach juice and milk running down his forearms, 

Spilling into a rusty street from two ragged sidewalks,

tripping over his drained rhubarb veins,

Brimming at the blistering skin.

 

His rib told him he was high as a kite. 

That's why she wouldn't let the kids visit. 

And sure, if they washed his army-issue shirt from the invading blood stains,

Wrapped it around his collar bones,

And strung it from his pinky,

It might look like a kite. 

He wondered if taking another drip meant giving up.

The veteran crumpled like a paper bag,

His eyes rolling into the back of his head, 

A post-coital groan eddying from another gruesome wave.

It would be nice to be floating out of this place.

 

He didn't wanna talk about what happened abroad, 

He wanted to be here, to be soft, for the kids,

He wanted some chicken soup for his skin,

A dike staving off of the waves,

Something cool and soothing, lulling his blazing arms to sleep. 

 

I held Teddy's arm gingerly,

Blood pouring into his mouth like the top of an hourglass.

I told him I'd make him some chicken soup,

The edges of his skin would be coaxed into talking again,

And no more peaches.

Just smooth skin, cool skin, cold skin..

The hourglass rang empty,

But I'm still working on that soup.