Head cradled by rifle strap
Starched white shirt tie-dyed in blood

In the soldier’s arms.
A mother waits,
In the streets of Baghdad

What might have been
No video-feed, not a game

Mothers wait.

I will break your window
to keep the moon
from staining it.

I will sink my own armada
to palace you
in driftwood boards.

I will choke
the songs
from a thousand wrens

and stuff them deep
in your pillow.
There is no limit to the things