No Warnings

By Tonya Suther

It was after midnight when you pulled 
up. No flashing lights, just a late-night 
security patrol, to the remote
weather site. The skies over Italy 
were clear and cold. No aircraft flew.
No stars shot. Your weapon, I noticed 
it first. How you carried it across 
your body, how you grasped the hand guard 
firmly, a thick green security 
belt framed your hips. I knew I looked good
too, in my fatigues, a ripe 
avocado from behind. 
I don’t recall if the chow hall 
stayed open after hours, but you 
were always too thin for my tastes.
It was your East Coast accent that tempted 
me. It reminded me of my first 
love, a beautiful boy from Brooklyn,
who took me, in a cellar, 
like I wasn’t even there.

****

Tonya Suther is a military veteran (USAF), a former news writer, and an award-winning poet. Her poetry has appeared in The Academy of American Poets, 2 River View, Zócalo Public Square, ISSUED: Stories of Service, and others. Her chapbook is On the Brink (Dancing Girl Press, 2021). She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from New Mexico State University and teaches dual-credit English courses at Austin Community College.