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.
Beyond the River
the French countryside–I’ve seen her wear it on Sundays,
the demolished cafe–the place we met–sans the coffee;
we share memories of our mother with mortars
beyond the river where red was only roses and Revlon,
and we left our school-teaching-selves
like the rubble now under our brothers
that collapsed our bridge home.