The Third Amendment of the United States Constitution: No soldier shall, in time of peace be quartered in any house, without the consent of the owner, nor in time of war, but in a manner to be prescribed by law.
When the soldier knocks on your door, billet book in hand, move aside
to let him enter. He will wipe his feet, remove his hat
(you’ll learn to call it a cover)
he will be polite, place his rifle by the door
Treat him with reverence, keep your fear hidden from view.
When the question of whether he’s killed bubbles up in your throat,
thank him instead for his service,
say you can’t imagine the sacrifice
When little streams of sand pour out of his pockets
and form mountains on your floor, be gracious—
look away while he sweeps the grains
back into the creases they emerged from
Make small talk with the soldier you are quartering,
invite him to eat with the family, make space for him
in front of the television, catch him up on celebrity gossip
he missed at war
Offer to make up the couch, though it is likely he will decline
and unroll his sleeping bag; he’s grown unused to comfort
He will have identified weaknesses
in your floor plan
and adjusted for them
Insist on providing a pillow to ease your conscience
If you come out for a glass of water in the middle of the night,
see the orange pill bottles lined up on the granite counter
He may tell you what they’re for or you can guess
when your children complain at breakfast
about their sleep interrupted by his night terrors
shush them
Order a noise machine to obstruct his screams
Tell them this is only temporary
When he steps out to smoke a cigarette in the dark try not to see
the glowing deposits of depleted uranium beneath his skin
turning his body into a constellation of half-lives
Soon you will call a warning before you switch on
the garbage disposal and coffee grinder,
apologize when the door slams
reassure him when the neighbor’s car backfires
never leave the door unlocked
He will begin to tell you stories in which violence is the setting,
not the point, a piece of the landscape of the places he has visited
Then he’ll tell you what he knows about death
Do not flinch
If he cries, nod.
You notice yourself worrying when America bobs in place
watching the world, ready to pounce like a double-dutch champion
The word troops means something different
when you’re quartering a soldier
You may notice him making plans, initiating conversation
sitting down more often to beat the kids
at video games
His laughter less a cough, his anger more a flash
of lightning than a storm
You will wish to share his burden, sleep without the sound barrier
hear his cries in the night
For all his straight-backed composure
he is no machine
Lie awake and wonder if this is worth the tax incentives
You’re in too deep now, but remember your words—
this is only temporary—
orders will arrive and his bag—never fully unpacked—
will be shut tight, his boots laced, his dusty rifle cleaned
Feel the tension in his parting embrace
the recoil as he adjusts his cover
and looks away from your tears Realize
your every act of kindness has been an act of war.
