1.
My son conducts
his five-inch flag
like a maestro.
Then, a little
separation. Here,
he says, his arm
outstretched to me.
I take the broken
staff.
He holds the frayed
fabric like a mask,
eyes on the backs
of stars.
He delights behind
capsized colors.
I bite down No.
2.
The hum
of the projector:
how to salute
during transfer.
I can tell you now
where the star field
is supposed to rest
on a closed casket.
Taught to fold —
taut.
3.
He’s three, younger
than his brother
who is yelling
from the muddy double slide.
Like roll call,
he is summoned.
AWOL, he ignores.
His morning work:
sitting on mulch chips,
folding triangles.
Pale, chubby fingers
tucking edges tighter,
making old glory,
like a secret note
passed in class.
Escort Officer Duty
Laura Joyce-Hubbard
Laura Joyce-Hubbard’s recent work appears in Boulevard, Ninth Letter, and Tupelo Quarterly. She’s been awarded fellowships by the NEA and Ragdale to attend residencies, including VCCA. Laura’s a veteran of the United States Air Force, where she flew C-130s. She is pursuing an MFA at Northwestern University and serves as a fiction editor for TriQuarterly.