Memorial

I watch you call the names of your dead,

each forms deep in your throat, falls from your mouth

like chess pieces or toy soldiers, even the children

posed with field phones and guns—everyone ready for battle.

The names tumble to the lectern, perch there

despite the hard currents of your sorrow,

your tears, my tears, splintered

and spilling from tabletop to floor. Yes

name your dead, each who fell in grace or not,

in innocence or not. And I will name mine.