To Ghosts of Cousins Who Might Have Been

      In memory of Staff Sergeant Carl Butera

At some point it ends, the possibility of flesh,

and we imagine what might have been,

the wilted dandelion bouquet held too tight

by small hands, the soft comforting whispers

on a stormy night.

It’s better than the concrete image that plays

in slow motion, a young man in uniform

standing firm on a cobblestone street before

his legs buckle and he collapses hard.

Where was he going that day? Did he hear

the crack before the bullet hit? Did he see

all those children he’d never know folding

in succession like paper dolls?

Years later, when his sister passes and her own

son and granddaughter sift through photos,

he is there in sepia, his dark eyes staring past them

and all the faces of those children hover

about them like ghosts.