She ran outside
stood in the street
and screamed
at the war,
hoping
it would kill her,
it having killed her eldest son,
and after thirteen days of red,
her husband.
Over twenty years now,
each day she walks
the stony road,
opens the door,
to the village's humble
gallery of photos;
one hundred fifty
family folk
with soldier hearts,
sepia faces,
hung there to watch,
keep guard over
their memories.
In the dusty cemetery
families buried
all
the guns,
AR 15s filled the graves
so as to find their
suited death
with death,
their graven markers
aim up to Whom
their victims
were sent;
as wobbly, countless
Jesus fingers
they poke through
el barro de carne y hueso,
(the mud of meat and bone)
pointing,
directing us
to safety.

Regarding Maria Gonzalez and the Mothers of Heroes and Martyrs Museum in Esteli, Nicaragua

Copyright 2007 Gary Brown