Arvilla Fee

Soldier Pieces

His hands shake

as I pass him the bowl,

his eyes darting

from side-to-side.

I speak gently to him,

like a negotiator

poised on a windowsill

coaxing a man

from the ledge.

He relaxes for a moment,

sucks in a deep breath,

releases it,

picks up his fork.

His face looks the same—

half shadows, half flame

from the candles I’d lit;

yet I know it isn’t.

There are worry lines

etched into his brow,

framing the corners

of his mouth,

his once bright smile.

There is a guardedness,

one I must accept

as I gather the pieces

to help make him whole.