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.

Pupils’ pupils

It’s clean–like suburbia,
absent of dumpsters,
no scrubbing phone cords
or de-staining diskettes
like when she’s actually laying between the hotel cotton,
oh wait, we let the maids do that;
there’s sweat on the mouse
and saliva on the mouth to the hands to?

alone?
penetration turns to education, maybe artistry?
justifying pupils’ pupils in the camera;
what do thins lines draw?
locating the absent parents of a preteen wading in the hotel pool.