A brief embrace before

he returns to battle,

my breast against his breastplate,

his arms around me and

our small son.

The pictures appear out of nowhere:

a body tied to a chariot, dragged through the dust,

a small boy flung from the highest rampart of the city wall,

a mighty warrior at an altar bludgeoning an old man to death,

women herded together, reviewed, parcelled out to triumphant warlords,

a rocky sea shore I do not know.

I blink back the images

and watch the tear

fall on his gauntlet.

He puts down the child,

picks up his helmet

and is gone.

© Franz Andres Morrissey 2003