Combatant
By Ann Walters

Today I saw a car like yours
and honked as if you
were behind the wheel.

I never thought about
what kind of clothes to wear
beside a grave, what shape a flag

takes when it’s not flying.
That song we sang, the pinky swears
and the palm-to-palm promises

one girl makes to another.
A tank, a helmet pulled low.
The kids laughing themselves silly

at those goggles like bug eyes,
hoarse with joy. Mom, they cried
into the satellite phone.

How I wish I had screamed too.

Ann Walters lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband and two daughters. Her poems have been published in Poet Lore, Poetry International, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Cider Press Review, Literary Mama, and many other journals. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

© 2008 prickofthespindle.com