Death squats in the barrel of a gun,
Holding brass like a mother holds her son.
They say love keeps children alive, and yet the dirt of a war zone holds my baby better than my arms ever did.
They say prayers would bring them home,
And yet they sent my baby home in a letter.
My baby,
Who once came home with tears in his eyes and scraped knees,
Now comes home in a casket with brass in his skull.
Half son, half soldier.
Half boy, half corpse.
Now, just rot that feeds the soil.
And maybe war is where you send your children to watch them grow into corpses.
To watch them spill life, sweat, blood, and tears from one body.
And to watch mothers cling to memories like a drowning man clings to his breath.
There’s a futility to this loss,
A sacrilege that stains battlefields.
A price paid for by children who had once been fed love for breakfast.
They say love keeps children alive.
It won’t.
But I hope it keeps my baby’s corpse warm.