The soldier's cradle

A mother lulls her son to peace to loose his fist and calm his arm and sleep his chest To make lion of his throat turn roar his nose and bow his head and eyes while a river runs from the corner of his mouth In the puddles of his own saliva For a time, when the sun is away He forgets the world and what bitter salts makes it Not all dreams are a run in the dark So, with shut eyes, still he sees burned huts turned manors and dead children building new worlds For a time, when he does not fight nor feels the need he remembers all of his tomorrows— the peace and the cradles of his own sons