Inge Haupt
Chewing CudArchive for soldier
The Sacrifice
They knocked on our door.
Bright silver buttons reflecting the shine of their smart leather boots.
A salute,
Ma’am.
We have a proposal for your boy.
We will make him a man,
Give him an education, an income,
A sense of purpose in a …
He paused and scanned the sapphire-bolt sky,
The lazy cream clouds,
The grass bowing eagerly to the wind
Teasing the dandelion seeds from their grasp,
Then thrusting them, tumbling through the air,
Mimicking the flock of swallows
Soaring gracefully on the updrafts.
But he was looking at the broken fence,
The uncut grass,
The rusted car,
And the paint peeling off window-panes that no longer shut fast.
… purposeless existence.
I blushed, we were poor.
This might give him a chance.
They could keep him away from the danger,
Put him at a desk.
He had a head for numbers,
Let him work the code.
Ma’am, please encourage your son to join us in Iraq.
I nodded.
Hector’s Funeral Pyre
There she stands across the flames
That curl and caper before our faces.
Her eyes are dark, unreadable now,
For I have sown the seeds of shame.
She bade him stay,
I made him go,
To save us from this awful fall
That she calls
Of night after night.
Locked in her ivory tower,
She speaks in riddles that we cannot comprehend.
Oh mad daughter,
Dreaming of fear and desolation,
Would that you could predict our end.
The pyre shifts and throws up sparks of light
Into the crystal, cold night.
But her soulless eyes never leave my face,
Boring my guilt deeper still, she allows no respite.
I beseech her across the blaze:
I had to send him, I had no choice.
Perhaps he is the sacrifice who us will save.
And there he burns, my son, my babe.
But she does not hear my silent plea.
Rather,
Auguries and omens fill her dark-haired beauty.
She reads the skies,
Draws lines in ash and dust,
Searching for meaning, giving no reasons, but
That it all must.
It simply must.
Death and Homecoming
There she stands across the grave,
The dark abyss that bears my son away.
My husband’s eyes turned from my face
For I have sown these seeds of shame.
As mourners begin to drift and disperse,
She approaches.
“You are the mother?”
I nod – again I nod! Why do I not speak?
Pale, thin fingers extend towards me,
“My name is Cassandra.”
I refuse the grasp.
“You are the one my husband went to see?”
She nods.
“I’m surprised you came.”
“Well, so few ask.
And your son, I hear he fought bravely.”
Empty platitudes. Her eyes speak more gravely.
They are full of a deep, dark sadness,
But crystal clear,
I see through the blur of my own tears.
“I’m surprised you came, but why are you here?”
“Your husband wanted me to see what I do.”
I shook my head, “No, this isn’t you.
He was one of many who are free to choose.”
She smiled.
“Do I amuse
you?”
“No, but there was no choice, but the one that leads to this grief
and that is why you let him leave.
Perhaps you can be consoled with the belief
That it was meant to be.”
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
Because it all must.
