In my grandmother's house,
plastic soldiers
guarded the base
on linoleum tile.
They shot me dead.
I was five years old,
wearing my mother's apron
"kiss the chef!"
Kiss the specks of black on my reflection
Nothing could balance out that pain.
not the sparrow's beak,
from ghost-speckled forests,
or the sound of
polite rain.
And then there is this lonely dialogue,
and the pieces from their maps
did not fit, but covered my body
as I fell.
The youth I trailed like a comet
on the alabaster floor
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
This is wonderful. The language is so perfectly economical and the images work very well. It's makes me feel what you feel very effectively and I suppose that's the purpose of poetry. This goodbye to childhood. Bravo!
ReplyDelete