Nostalgia


The Good ol' Days . . .

When my morning alarm
was the sound of vomiting gravel.
When my nursery rhymes
were sirens and breaking windows,
and bedtime stories
were screams cut short and gun fire.

The Good Times . . .


When we'd go to the church,
even on weekdays,
for the weekly group eulogies,
where the sobbing was guttural and
the crying was low and smothered,
because the survivors were mostly men.

The Fond Memories . . . 


Of hunting neighborhood dogs
with my father and cousin, and
making Molotovs in the basement,
waiting for the sweep outside
to be over so we could sleep.
Whatever it was that the teeth people
first released, it killed off
females first.
Something to do
with estrogen, I've heard.

So I don't well remember

my motherI was only three
when she turned to dust
but I well remember the sound
of my father sobbing,
pressing his face
against the hallway mirror
until it cracked and cut
his forehead. 

"Nostalgia" Copyright © 2014 by D. Wickliff



























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