FLAGFALL

She sits in black,

black shirt,

skirt and shoes,

tears spent, rehearsing,

weighing the folded sheet

chosen for its size and weight

to feel like the flag,

folded into a dozen

triangles, she will bear,

as the ground

opens its mouth.

Insurgency had become

more selective and secretive,

he’d said – more snipers,

suicide bombers – you

could no longer tell.

“I must be brave, as he was

when at ten he fell,

broke his arm at camp: wait

in my seat for the salute,

try to hear the fusillade

without breaking down.

I wonder if it will be

a sunny day at Arlington,

comrades’ armor glinting,

or dull, damp with spring rain?

I must sit, like this,

to receive the flag,

like this, as I lose sight,

and hold Rich’s hand –

he comes from a military

family and will understand.”