by Geminga J. Mistry
Whose son is that, |
over whose defunct, garbled body
spin spirals of shrapnel staples?
What bed did he leave
to the susurrus of aspen trees,
what pillow to the quivering caress
of a mother's fearful hand?
What love had he,
now swamped with mud
and drowned in blood,
that he would have held again?
What dreams were claimed
by war's percussive, deadly light,
or perhaps lost to
an unpretentious yellow fog?
Into what consuming morass
go memories of boyish afternoons,
shady fishing pools,
and finally, insistent, patriotic appeals?
And did he,
with his last thought or breath,
execrate the senseless war
that sent him here,
then left him here,
Copyright © 2007 - Geminga J. Mistry
Published: 9/13/07 · Author's Page · Next Poem