for my daughter
I thought I knew the way
through words to tell
again the soldier’s take,
how language harbors
expectations—and
not just the wasteful carnage
of youthful courage cut down
for a culture that needs
their blood to purpose
what little poetry
can be made of their death—
what marks those boys slaughtered:
they were sent like you flush the toilet
to a war no one wanted any more,
so they gave it to their children,
let them play with death
watched them die on TV during supper.
