Crosses Made of Rifles
Omaha Beach, 2025 / 1944
They buried them where the tide broke,
where the sea had tasted blood
and did not flinch.
No marble, no names,
just rifles driven into sand,
bayonets pointing nowhere.
A helmet on top—
not to shield,
but to mark the silence.
The chaplain had no hymnal,
just salt on his lips
and shaking hands.
Some boys he didn’t know.
Some boys he did.
It made no difference.
They were all gone the same way.
The tide was coming in,
and the dead lay shoulder to shoulder
as if waiting for orders.
Some bodies still stared at the sky,
mouths open like they were
just about to say something
they’d never get to.
And the living—
they planted the guns in the earth
like seeds of sorrow,
and prayed the sea would not
wash them clean too soon.
Not one of them thought of glory.
Only of mothers.
Of home.
Of the sound a helmet makes
when it’s set down
for the last time.