Buried bombs go off
at random times during the day,
seemingly triggered by nothing.
A song pops into my head
or an image, or a remembered smell
and suddenly I'm tearing up, sobbing,
unable to stop missing her.
Like a moment ago, I was just sitting here
and suddenly thought of that Italian restaurant
a block from our apartment.
We passed it every day but only ate there once.
The decor was over-the-top tacky,
all mirrors and marble, faux fancy.
I don't recall what we ate, except that
we both agreed it had too much garlic.
I don't remember what we talked about,
if we dressed up, if we had a good time.
I hate that I remember so little
and yet even the vaguest scrap of memory
creates an explosion of pain.
Who laid these mines? Who set the tripwires?
Love did, slipping through the underbrush
in its camouflage gear. The war
is long since lost, yet unexploded ordnance
still litters the countryside, likely to maim
no matter how carefully I step.