This feeling comes daily,
the cleaver like a magnet
to metal, cold like the gun

she carried in the desert,
the cleaver used to chop the meat,
could maybe slice into her arm.

She fights the urge, of course,
makes the dinner, blanching peas,
stirring sauce, pushes the images –

people losing limbs, that kid’s
eyes hot with fear like the air,
cowering in the dark

when she entered the burned-out
building ahead of her platoon,
the one from where they say

the sniper shot – to the recesses
of her mind, swallows pills,
meditates, but still she finds

herself heading south on Route 1
counting utility poles,
wondering if she could shift

the wheel, aim and drive it hard,
car’s front end crumpling like her
sanity with the impact.