Its head resting on the crest, the lion still guards the Confederate soldiers
buried in the aftermath of Civil War.
Not a gargoyle spouting water, 
not an angel of compassion, 
not a soldier of upright honor:
The protector of the Confederate Dead oversees those who fought in war, 
died perhaps in hopes of victory or in the long years after defeat.
Childhood memories of this beast remain hushed
For he lounged in his tomblike pose
with somber silence an a permanent stone snarl
everytime we visited Mario,
our older brother sent to live in the state home for the others like him.
"Retarded children" who grew into adults 
far away from their families in big cities, small towns, developing suburbs,
schools with proms, sports teams, theater programs, rules about uniforms and hair,
and the normal angst and joys of growing children.
Separated.
They lived, learned, slept, ate, and developed in every way within 
feet of this sad-honored, isolated lion.
Set apart.
The crowded home seemed ever silent, sitting directly next to the cemetery of the fallen.
An odd placement for a state school, yet horrifically fitting.
Both stood at the back-most spot at the edge of town: 
a place for the forgotten, the unpleasant, the no longer fit, the defeated.
The soldiers' ages on the tombstones -- teenagers, young men, only a few who died aged.
The children next door, born in times of poverty and misunderstanding, dying in childhood,
in teen years,
into their adult years still dying too young.
No more than a few living fully.
The school has closed, 
the cemetery has grown controversial in these cruel times, 
yet the lion remains, watching, seeing, observing, somber, cold, and cruel.