“No mother should bury her child,”
my great-aunt sobbed at the cemetery
that August morning. Her shivering body
hunched over the grave, and she scattered
rose petals like blood spatter
in a murder scene. Her son was only seventeen
when he went to war. He died
before he could kiss a girl on the lips
and build a life, before he could father
his unborn kids. “Why God, why?” she wailed
and raised her fist. Summer breeze whispered
around the headstones and moaned
in the cypress trees. The canopy of clouds
cast a shadow on the morbid ground
and the air smelled like rosewater, tears
and ghosts of what could have been.