M.I.A.
I found her old diary
charting the confusion,
the loss, her baby brother
missing in action.
This was not supposed to happen,
of course. He was too young,
too handsome, too filled with promise.
She said rosaries, lit candles,
but the waiting sucked
any life from her.
She slept-walked through the days
too numb to care
about anything else.
4 thoughts on "M.I.A."
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All the “too”s never saved him.
M. I. A. is a tragic poem, but its voice is somehow hopeful against all hope.
Thanks. I was hoping for that.
The sadness, the regret are palpable in this poem.