June Widow (after Saving Private Ryan)
If I pick her, she will be torn,
beautiful flowers, back over the pond, in a vase,
the French countryside–I’ve seen her wear it on Sundays,
the place we met–the demolished cafes–sans the coffee;
we share memory of mothers with the crash of cannons,
beyond the river where red was roses and Revlon
and knee cuts on the playground,
we left our school-teaching-selves:
like the rubble above our brothers
that collapsed our bridge home.
If I pick one, she will be torn
so many beautiful flowers
if I pick one, she will be torn,
no one will see her except in my vase
back home,
and I can’t let that happen.
a children’s store crayon
that I break between my fingers is
no longer my favorite color, god, everything
is white light, black pain–my life on a graying canvas.