The leaves are gone and the birds will come.
to pick at your splayed limbs
clotted red with the fruit of existence.
This is a season of remembrance.
You were laid down in lines to enclose the land,
found belonging in displacement –
you who have always remedied the heart’s failings.
A mother will always have her son home,
his actions always twisted to fit the fight
for a church, a history, a border, a dream.
This is how they harvest young men
with no land to call their own.