For the Mothers of the Fallen Ones
The grief was a ball in your chest,
a tangled dirty weave of fears and feelings
not appropriate to have yet, as if
they would be a self-fulfilling curse,
Each long, drawn out day was
a fruitless wait for a phone call, text,
email, anything to say he was coming home.
Or the knock on the door proving he never will.
You spoke of these fears and failings, this weakness,
once, and his father, the man who loves you,
told you never to speak of it again.
You spoke to your son often, bittersweet
moments, all of them, but you swallowed
the bitterness of fear
for the sweetness of simply being
for just a moment.
When the knock on the door came
the pristine uniforms were of no comfort,
the reports of his bravery, almost
formulaic, were bitter,
harsh as being strapped to a bed of nails.
Your legs were rubber,
your stomach, acid,
But worse your mind remained dull
for an eternity afterwards.
You cried again the day
the troops were withdrawn in obvious defeat,
notwithstanding the spin,
and you wondered, not for the first time,
what was the point of it all?
