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Draft Dodger Mother
Each man's life is precious-
a treasure of flesh, bone, organs,
the pulsating heart,
and mystery soul that man has pondered on
since man began.
None has the right to take such life
say you at seventeen,
soon plump enough to season the stew pot
of our latest holy war.
Yet you will go, you swear,
if any friends go there,
to make it fair.
Tender morsel, virgin still-
a fine sacrifice you would make
to the great god guilt.
So I will secret you away
to some unmarked mountain spot.
We will live on wild berries and honey
and water from clear primeval streams.
We will sleep in peace
beneath ancient redwood trees
and wake each day
to a new sun.
Your eyes
will never see a child
whose mother moaning
rocks its skinless smoking body,
groaning, groaning.
Your ears
will never hear a friend
who writhes about with guts blown out,
shrieking, shrieking.
Your hands
will never use a gun
to kill some other mother's son
so she, like me,
from that day on is spent in
grieving, grieving.
By Catherine Lynn
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