Caroline, who once heard spirits,
lays in her bathtub, lukewarm water,
looking up through the makeshift skylight,
as a bomber flies overhead.
She sighs, the war has already come,
and nothing in the world or it’s souls
could turn away the half-rotted face
of the queen of the dead.
Her town is left to burn and starve,
and her man was taken at the first,
only her alone in this house of theirs,
all hope and light has already fled.
She could almost sleep, sink under
the grey and soapy water, take that
into her lungs and not be in this world,
full of fires and blood and endless dread.
She gets out, gets dressed, cuts her hair
short and at a harsh angle, and packs her
bag with enough to last maybe a week,
and a picture of the man she never got to wed.