Prisoner of War

by D A Prince

After the camp he returned,
folding himself,
bringing back nothing, except
this swivelling way of watching
everyone, everywhere.
 
She waited
while he stripped the chicken carcass,
every sliver, not a scrap wasted,
leaving the bones polished,
scoured of meat;
a gleam on the plate.
 
It was only over
with the last shred eliminated,
and the silence reshaped around him.