Our brother's come home
let us rejoice. He has come bearing unwrapped gifts and untold stories while we circle around him like a chant.
His wife is quiet now, her steps
determining her iron will that will not bleach into the shroud while we circle around him like a chant
The boy is agog at the hum
of people crowding to see our hero, now quiet and grim medaled in shrapnel, while we circle around him like a chant
Mother is heaving her breasts that are so dry you can't squeeze tears from them, and her eyes are as stony as unexploded shells, and we dare not now circle around him like a chant
No, we dare not now that we have forfeited our grief for the right to be a hero's heroes; and we have to hold on to his gifts and stories, his hopes, his memories; we have to carry on.
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