Collateral by Ellen Hopkins

Passionate.
    Sort of like great sex. The kind I’ll
    have in a couple of days. With Cole
    Gleason. Not Jonah Clinger. Stop it,
    already. I turn off my computer, reach
    for my pen and the notebook I write
    poetry in. Find order in formal verse.

SLOW BURN
    by Ashley Patterson
    What happens to kisses never kissed—
    those we pretend not to have missed?
    Do they fall from our lips and settle, silt,
    compress into fossils, layered in guilt;
    Do they crumble like wishes, their magic lost,
    or wither and curl, seedlings chewed by frost;
    or perhaps they take flight, buoyant as screams,
    to tempt us again in the heat of our dreams.
    What is the ultimate cost of kisses not kissed?
    What becomes of passion we choose to resist?
    Does it sink like hope on a cloudy morning,
    mire us with doubt, muted forewarning;
    Does it rise from the groin, seeking the brain,
    creeping like quicksilver, vein into vein,
    to bewilder, an answer we cannot discern,
    or smolder, a candle condemned to slow burn?
    What can we say about passion dismissed,
    or the import of kisses consciously missed?
    Scorned passion is truth we’re doomed to forget,
    kisses wasted, the weight of final regret.

Rewind
IN THE DAYS
    Right before Cole shipped out
    for his first Iraq tour, his enthusiasm
    was almost contagious. Almost.
    When he’d call, he’d talk about
    a hundred klicks (military speak
    for kilometers) a minute. Fallujah,
    here we come! Get ready for a major
    ass-whooping. Did you hear about
    that sonofabitch suicide bomber
    at that funeral? Crazy bastard!
    If he harbored the tiniest hint
    of fear, he never confessed it,
    and it never, ever showed. In fact,
    he felt immortal. Untouchable.
    The way he’d been trained to believe.
    Personally, I was thrilled for him.
    Petrified for me. Fallujah.
    I did my research, and it scared
    the crap out of me. When this
    whole Iraq mess started, Fallujah
    was, according to everything I read,
    the “deadliest city” in the country,
    a stronghold of insurgency, and
    who knew, exactly, who the bad
    guys were or where they hid
    their weapons? When coalition
    forces first went in, casualties
    were assumed—and that included
    civilians. Bombs aren’t selective.
    And grenades truly are colorblind.
    Killing women and children
    is not conducive to goodwill.
    It took years to rebuild, and
    by the time Cole arrived in Iraq,
    the corner had been turned.
    That’s what they were saying,
    and I clung to that. Cole and his
    buddies, however, were primed
    for a fight. And that worried me
    more than the very real threat
    of IEDs or stray bullets. The peace
    that had been forged was fragile.
    Depending on who was doing
    the talking, the silence in the streets
    represented a suffocating culture.
    The Iraqi police force was no kinder
    to Fallujah citizens than U.S. soldiers,
    looking for trouble where perhaps none
    lurked. Or perhaps it did. The situation
    was confused, even if it wasn’t chaotic.

WHEN COLE ARRIVED
    In the Anbar Province, communication
    became less frequent, and actual calls
    were rare. He did send fairly regular e-mails
    from Camp Fallujah’s Internet café.
    At first, they were tinged with excitement.
    YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE THIS PLACE. IMAGINE
    A GHOST TOWN. TOMBSTONE OR SOMETHING .
    ONLY IT’S A GHOST CITY. MOST OF IT HASN’T
    BEEN REBUILT SINCE THE 2004 OFFENSIVE .
    IT LOOKS LIKE A BUNCH OF STONE SKELETONS .
    BUT, SOMEWHERE IN THE GUTS OF THOSE
    RUINS ARE FUCKING INSURGENTS, BUSY
    BUILDING IEDS AND POKING THEIR HEADS
    UP JUST LONG ENOUGH TO TAKE POTSHOTS
    AT US. BY GOD, WE’RE GOING TO SMOKE
    THE MOTHERFUCKERS OUT AND SQUASH
    THEM LIKE HORNETS. AND IF THEY’RE PISSED
    HORNETS, SO MUCH THE BETTER. ON ANOTHER
    NOTE, PLEASE SEND SOUR CANDY AND CIGS .
    DOESN’T MATTER WHAT KIND. I CAN TRADE .
    LOVE YOU. MISS YOU. I’D SAY WISH YOU WERE
    HERE BUT I DON’T. TOO MANY PERVS AROUND .

AS THE WEEKS WORE ON
    E-mail often became gripe mail.
    The Fallujah