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.

Gladiator

I will never be a soldier fighting a barbarian horde
Or see my family, crucified, hanging on my door,
But will stand on my word and my promise
To not seek the crowd’s thumb gest
For if I shall kill to seek revenge
My soul I know I’ll singe.
If I am to die in a tragic mess,
So be it, but that’s easy to say in U.S.

You do not fear Rome. It does not live.
You fear my God because He lives.
“I will see you in the after-life,
But not yet (unless you change).”