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.

More than a Movie

We await green saucers hovering in the smoldering sky
But no aliens show their ships:
They are our species, of our sickly kind.
The Persistence Of [our] Memory is
Surreal, as I fell asleep wishing it all away by Manhattan morn,
Wanting to see twin sentinels guarding over the city again,
Not rubble under its cityscape.
We search for culprits and casualties
In the fog of destruction.
Waiting for the credits to run
So we can run out and kill the director, the scriptwright, the producer . . .
For we will “make no distinction.”
–

We are orphans crumbling of Babel:
Towers tumbling, imploding, upon themselves
Anger resonates as planes plummet,
Yearning for arms to hold us up
From attack from inside our country,
And from inside ourselves.