Theatre of War

He faces her, about to follow commands.
His armour screens his face, combat gear
makes him believe his part is valid.
In this play, he knows every line, each act,
knows he is right to come down hard.
Demonstrations are inappropriate
now, when the status quo is under threat.
Politicians told generals told officers who told him:
'Obey. You'll regret subordinate recalcitrance.'
'For the last time, move,' he tells her.
She knows the mood, the voice, from old.
Her eyes penetrate his visor, break his cover
into smithereens, 'Son, reject fascism,'
she demands. He hesitates, arm raised.
Roars, then smashes down his baton
on his mother's fragile skull. She crumples.
Blood soaks the curls, his baby fingers tangled.