the late letter

the brother
over seas, in the war.
in the trenches
sends a letter.
it's mud caked. blood?
there is the smell of carnage
in the words.
the heart felt
scroll scratched out
in ink.
the mustard gas
in tightening his throat.
the screams
of the dying
and the undead
barely alive drip
upon each page. i'll be
home soon the letter says,
between shells,
between the narrow line
of bullets
searing by,
but he'll be gone
before it gets here,
boxed and draped
in red white and blue
before a tear can fall
from his mother's
eyes.