In the depths of the trenches
Smeared with blood and grime and tears
She calls for her fallen soldier, his head laid on a chair
Beside her, his eyes flutter like the wings
Of butterflies in a field of daisies
Fluttering like the pink paper garlands his mother strings neatly
Over the mantle on his seventh birthday
Fluttering like the acceptance letter
Tight in his fist as he races up the driveway from the mailbox
Fluttering like his football jersey (number 17) in the wind
Or like his hair on the park bench where
He has his first kiss with the pretty senior girl from church
His eyes close
Like the door slamming on his father’s way out
Or the book he finishes for his first real book report in second grade
They close like the desk drawer where he keeps
Halloween candy from last year for his little sisters
They close like a car door- hard and fast and angry
She cradles him in her arms
Rocking back and forth- a toy horse in a department store
Rocking
The sounds of planes and explosions are in her head
The shots are not
War is hell
School is hell
School is war
And we are butterflies in a field of daisies-
Living just long enough so they mourn us when we leave
