If It Were Only Words (Mother's Day)

It would be so simple — a savannah
of syllables — feral
yet safe — antonym to war and rage and transgression

and dying flowers in a plastic
vase dedicated to
a truncated emotion one spring Sunday afternoon.

But this is the weed creep
of battered emotions
and the Sahara remaining after the tanks depart

for a further western front —
a further death by political dissonance —
a further childhood raped

and all that remains is emulation —
emigration to a cold country
with a cold response to a cold response.