a child unearths a charm
I gave to you. Sand weathered
the face of St. Michael into a tarnished
silhouette, the vow cut
into the silver on the back no longer
reads “more than my own life.”
A whisper of distorted letters remain
as estranged to this child as we are now
to each other. When I gave you this charm
I said “he is the patron saint of war.”
as if he could protect you, as if death
was the only way you could die. I envisioned
getting it back, given to me while the flag
was presented to your mother, but you ensured
I’d never see it again.
As this child watches light foxtrot
across his trinket, he believes
he’s found something of value, as I did.
not knowing he is a mirage, a kindness I’ve created
because I know it came back home
with you and is buried
in a land fill
with the rest of America’s unwanted things.