She's a bronze statue inside
an electric fenced garden.

The boys line around to
drop flowers onto the death wires.
And to their drop-jawed mothers,
they wave final goodbyes and
climb the fried stalks to start
their new lives in frozen matrimony.

Irresistible whispers blow through
the flowers and trees
lulling to cull the next
wave of grooms to the
cool Spring tombs.

When will we touch her mommy?
When will we feel the warmth?
These stationary sensations are
keeping us cold, and I wish I hadn't
run off all my winter ponch.

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