children all, in this field of white stones:
a thousand twin sons from different mothers
all is math, though here subtraction reigns supreme
I take four numbers from four, and am left with nothing
minuend deaths, subtrahend births
whether the difference is nineteen or twenty-nine, both now equal zero
zero years to return to a mother's desperate loving arms,
zero years to marry a sweetheart, raise a son, or again hoist a flag
for now the baneful banner is folded neatly,
for those whose numbers I tabulate
in this garden of the early dead
where errant weeds are slaughtered
lest they blaspheme the chosen grasses
kept neatly above the chosen ******