To Inherit the Earth

In the fragrant backyards
of the Army, the whispering
Janes bake orthodoxies
into pie. Oh! the dresses
they wear, the photos
of some sweet mother
stationed
on each and every shelf.
How they bother
about the meek
on the Sabbath
near the wars
over in Juarez.
Gentle preacher pray
for the whispering Janes.
Pray for the upended
daughters of the revolution,
the last of their kind.
No more Apple Brown Betty,
no more quiet afternoons.