the air is screaming red
the ground soaked with blue
white stars piercing the hearts of those
watching at home
horrified
terrified
petrified
as faceless, nameless numbers
are counted out as the hours draw on
seven
ten
twelve dead
upwards of thirty injured
identifiable only
by the cameo they wear
that they wore
with their helmets
and their guns
now balanced precariously at memorials
displayed before words
prideful and patriotic
a warning
meaningless and empty
to the people to whom the dead
weren't numbers
but people
not casualities
but fathers, sons, cousins, brothers
robbed of their honor
stripped of even a martyrs death
in the sick selfishness
of one

curled up in home's safety
there is only one number that I dial
in the face of
war's casualties:
my sister's voice, silent for months
crying, breaking
over in D.C.
she hadn't heard the news
and neither had her base
so many friends from training
were stationed there
as a woman who shared
the colors of the dead
she was one of the
brave, the
proud, and the
few
who could see the fallen soldiers for what they were:
people
and in her voice only could I feel the true fear
the threat to my sister
the red carnationed breast that she risked
and was a risk
to all those who shared her uniform
spilling over in violent colors
from across the sea
to home