THE MOTHER was haunted,
by memories of her son:
camouflaged in green,
and stained by red—
nightmares that made her break
in cold sweat,
pray to all the saints
that the heavens protect her dearest
from the enemy’s bullets.
She relived the days when her soldier was but
a little boy who always cried in school.
“Mama!” he implored,
as he marched back home,
a school bag hanging from his shoulder
alongside young men in faded polo shirts and slacks.
Soon, his shoulder bore the weight
of a mud-splattered rifle,
and he marched with men in proud salute,
who returned without him
and offered nothing but a disc of smelted gold
to a mother unable to hear again
his last haunting words:
“I love you, Ma.”
