Stamped Cold

In the shoebox, under old letters,

the cold metal caught the light.

A dull gleam, almost silver,

but heavy, not bright.

My grandfather's dog tag.

The chain, thin and bent

from years against skin, or just movement.

His name, precise and impersonal,

stamped in the steel.

A number, a faith, the blood type.

All that remained, cold to the touch.

A life compressed to these hard facts.

A small piece of a larger, unseen war.

It didn't warm in my palm.

Just stayed itself, stark.