Sorrow.
The sight of a mother giving birth
to a life that won’t live,
ending.
The wail that shattered the air.
Beginning.
The tears
on her empty face
drawn to a place
that is hollow,
hollow like a dead tree
tossed in the wind.

The many times
my hand met the skin of my brother.
my hand.
Did his face have to be bunched up
with rivers running from his eyes,
rusty sunset rising from his skin?
No.
My hand was mine to hold
I could have done something
I

A soldier
hands of dirt and blood,
clasped in a silent prayer.
Waiting beside a door.
Listening
for the beep of the monitor
keeping time with his friend’s
heart.
Pleading
What could I have done?
His life cannot be gone
Please. Please.

On the wings of the world
rode the echo
of the tears
her fears
my regret
my regret
my one regret
as sorrow settled
over the world.

The soldier,
waiting beside the door
hears a cry,
the cry of a heart wrenched from its place,
torn,
lifted by the winds of a wail,
a wail that shattered the air,
and a cry
from a mother

when she knew the life that would not live.