What mother wants
her son as a monument,
the rider of a stallion with
both front legs raised,
displaying a plague
that no one reads anymore?

What mother wants
her daughter as a tweetstorm,
thousands of brisk words
and sentences that beg,
plea, and demand
a freedom that never arrives?

What mother wants
her child resting unmarked,
buried with all the other nameless
in unhallowed ground that eventually
gets used as a parking lot?

What mother wants
to carry that much sadness
and claim that it’s pride, say that honor
can supersede the memory
of baby-fine hair, tiny snores,
and all of those silly giggles?

None of us.
It is simply what we do.