Graveside mother,
Your eyes have none of the
Fully-armed, trigger-happy
Fire that your son's used to.
Your posture
Isn't nearly so straight.
Your black church shoes
Lack the foreign dirt
That his boots knew.
His face was wet
With sweat,
Not those silly tears.
While he fed his gun money,
(No thoughts of debt)
Your husband watched the TV
And drank beers.
With held eyes,
And blind strength therein,
Would you send
Your son
To war again?