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by Chris Allen
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The surface of the pool ripples—white lines
roll across chlorine blue. Dust blows
Afghan dust kicks, plumes, never settles,
eighty worn, rubber boot-heels clap.
through the air, crystallizes into water.
Newborn in my arms, older sister unseen.
Unseen dust, more in my uniform than on it.
Another memorial begins:
Roll call!
Two-year-old kicks aren’t hard enough to crack the surface,
she isn’t. I’m standing on the deck. She is still
underwater. Her eyes bulge for the surface.
Private Fernandez?
Here, First Sergeant!
Please. Please. Just one more bubble.
Specialist Brown?
Here, First Sergeant!
I fling her from the pool to her mother. I’m still
Sergeant Anderson?
She coughs water onto the deck.
Sergeant Benjamin Anderson?
She folds over her mother. I can’t hear their tears
Sergeant Benjamin T. Anderson?
over the tinnitus. I see them heaving,
Taps.
sobbing, breathing, and look down at my son,
who splashes the water and begs to stay in.
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–Chris Allen is a gender-fluid, queer father and veteran with PTSD. They won the 2019 Lillie Robertson Prize for poetry and their works have been published in Glass Mountain, Defunkt Magazine, and Inkling.
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