Whose war was she in?

[[ From a memory of when I was very young in the 1960s and my mother had brought me with her into a social club. A drunken woman approached us to see this pale little boy. She said she liked my name and repeated it back to me in a low, drawn-out voice several times. Her face was scarred, seamed, pieced, I don't know from what. In those days, she could have been through either world war or through a windscreen made from the opposite of safety glass. ]]


Who is this tumbler reeling
towards us in the club?
I must be five and she a thousand.
I must be terrified and frozen.

Save me, ma, from
the fates at night.

Save me, ma, from
the bombs that fall.

Save me, ma, from
the patchwork face.

Save me, save us all,
ma, from us all.

Who is this woman with
a glass of something golden,
an orange cigarette smolder,
a face pieced back together
along the seams?

Save me, ma, from
the fates at night.

Save me, ma, from
the bombs that fall.

Save me, ma, from
the patchwork face.

Save me, save us all,
ma, from us all.

Whose war was she
in? Whose war?
Whose war was she?
No one left to ask.