Elix Inkeles,
Felled in a foreign land.
He lived in King’s County,
He enlisted in war.
Only twenty-three,
He stays with the French.

Despite all that we know
About the first World War,
We have forgotten
Elix Inkeles,
His purple star shining,
Only one phrase preserved
From his last letter home:
‘I am well and contented.’

Did Elix like sunsets?
Did he love lemonade?
Did he gaze at fireflies
On serene summer nights?
But most of all, I ask:
Why did he go to war?
Did he even want to?

Just by the Brooklyn
Botanical Garden,
His memorial rests
In the emerald grass.
With his tree dead and gone,
There is no way to know
Whether it was an oak,
A maple, a willow.

All that is left behind?
A lone plaque among leaves.