Anne Barney

To My Son, Talking to an Army Recruiter

My son, not yet

18, do not be

too eager

to learn what soldiers learn:

there are no glorious deaths.

I am afraid

one will call you “Hero,”

handing me back my letters

found in your helmet’s lining.

I am afraid

one will call you “Brother,”

washing away your bloodstains

out of his uniform’s arms.

This sergeant is no different

than a man

who would steal a baby

from an unwatched stroller.

I am watching.

I am proud

of your love,

and your desire

to guard and protect.

But my son,

I regret to inform you,

it can never be

as strong as mine.