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
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