Little Soldier, Dreamer

A flag unfurls in the sunny sky, a promise of wealth and glory
to the young boy dreaming of belonging.

Does the war make the boy a man? Or, rather, does it make the man a boy, yearning for the
warmth of a mother’s unblemished hands?

Cold tongues are all that offer an answer, licking dry lips and chortling over ladies who, for one
night, will say they love the boy over a dollar or two. But they don’t kiss. They never kiss.

Shell shock suits you, dear. It brings out your eyes.

There is something tight in the country, in the boy’s breast, it grips and gripes like the hot sun
above him, the boy is unable to escape that damned sun.
He loves his nation. He is his nation.

He loves himself, he tells himself, when his own beating heart stares back at him, cage broken
open in the shout of a patriotic family. Blood is thicker than water, so they said.

The boy loves himself because he loves his nation.
He is his nation.

The flag unfurling covers the sun. The boy rests in shade.