Monday, August 4, 2014

Headline Poem 8/4/14 -- my first fear

my first fear

we were vulnerable that summer after my mom's surgery and before she married no name. 

houses of yellow too close to freeway walls were targets 
of the walk-in killer 
(that's what he was called 
by the brunette news lady 
and her side kick who looked like jackie chan).

i hid under my bed, my brother safely tucked under one arm, 
my mom holding one crutch, 
me half sleeping with the other 
under my second arm. 

i was not about to fall asleep while that man wandered 
and roamed 
hurting ladies and cutting them up,
so i stayed awake 
until they both fell asleep, 
and then when i couldn't fight it any longer, i controlled my dreams,
telling myself what to 
think about
letting them in to twist my insides
and scatter my nerves. 

i wonder if that's what's happening now,
this fear 
of the rattle and 
the breaking of dawn.  

my house was the color of wood, 
a few steps in the front where 
my first dog was buried and our 
cat who was hit by a car, 
our only protection from the 
threatening war. 

after he was caught, he still haunted
my steps. 
i tried to forget 
and then
we moved away 
and i was able to remember other things
and play, 

until another bad guy
took his pace.