Wars of No End
by Odin Roark

The professionals preach
soldiers are supposed to grieve in stages.
Just how is this insight acquired?
Maybe…

just maybe,
if such steps had been revealed coherently,
fewer brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers
might have been saved ripped hearts and spirits,
resulting in a heap of scattered pieces when that
part of their family returned.

Maybe…

Soldiers could have asked,
weep with me?

Maybe…

Their family wouldn’t have felt helpless,
these many months of PTSD and loneliness.

But then…

Maybe soldiers wouldn’t have accepted
this fragile courage to check their mags,
make sure the chambers were loaded,
step cautiously as they nudge a child’s severed arm.

Maybe…

They would have merely wiped their tearful eyes clear
and taken another step forward.

Maybe…

We can’t help wondering
when and how fighting men and women were supposed to understand,
this euphoria-like numbness
of what their professionals called
the make-as-you-go survival kit:
Get over it.

But…

their honor drives them,
wars have no end,
as long as military profits can be made.