Son

Behold: gas and pain and anger
Tiny clenched fists
A squalling ball of fury
Demands his birthright.
But the breast is flaccid, shrunken
Unable to provide
Like the cracked and broken land
This is our home.

His belly is full now
Bloated and still bare
Rounded like fertility and promise
Where there is none
Bursting with desperation
His legs are pain and bone
But able, just, to stand...

And later, a lolling head, pale and grey
A lazy head, too large and heavy
Rolls around on bony shoulders
Barely human
The grey, skeletal son
Of a generation
Beyond, but still here
Can only stare at us now,
From the glassy fourth wall.