When the wooden horse rolled in
and its side fell open, you braced,
stiffenening your muscles, but
no assault, only darkness
with a promise of surprise—
so you waited. Sometimes
you climbed up its flank and neck
looking into its eye’s cavern
and held your breath. It followed
on its ancient casters with creaky
warnings at the commissary,
the family readiness meeting,
the ring of your land line.
It followed you to the officers’ BBQ
and its wooden jaws cracked open.
She’s no moto wife. She doesn’t
even run. Her dog is just a tiny little thing.
She doesn’t plan to join the softball team,
and you saw the other wives
cordoned off inside the beast’s belly,
and your husband ate ribs and laughed.
LISA STICE received a BA in English literature from Mesa State College (now Colorado Mesa University) and an MFA in Creative Writing and Literary Arts from the University of Alaska- Anchorage. She taught high school for ten years and is now a military wife who lives in North Carolina with her husband, daughter and dog. Her full-length poetry collection, Uniform, is forthcoming with Aldrich Press. You can find out more about her and her publications on her blog and Facebook page.