Ballistics

The tackle box lid has a rusted-out hinge,

filled with a tangle of line and a singe.

Between the lead weights and a hook made of steel,

the brass of the casings is all I can feel.

They roll in the bottom, a dull, hollow sound,

the ghosts of a forest where nothing was found.

I pulled out his jacket, the olive-drab wool,

heavy with sulfur and a long, steady pull.

The war is a secret we keep in the shed,

a handful of metal that won't leave his head.