Sometimes What We Miss

When she heard the child cry out,
her right arm jerked to a grotesque angle,
fingers splayed and froze.
She dragged her twisted right leg,
foot curled inward, as she limped
across the floor.

From its crib, the child reached out perfect arms,
kicked its bare feet against the bars,
insistent like a ragged shutter
on a windy night.

With her left hand, she squeezed rigid
fingers into a fist, bent her shoulders
and gently scooped the child with her forearms.
Gurgling, the child nuzzled against her neck.

She crooned a lullaby of lemon trees
and goat bells tinkling,
the music of laughter
of shoes dancing, hands clapping
to the beat of the tarantula.

In this way Rosalita taught the child
how to make its body sing.

Eighteenth Birthday

Antoine learned how to be that extra child
in someone else's house,
wear hand-me-downs and skip meals,
the kid with the different last name.
If he made too much noise,
got in trouble at school,
or the foster payment came late,
his belongings got packed in a brown paper bag.
If a government car brought a stranger to ask,
How're you doing? bullshit like that,
his heart went ballistic, mouth kept silent.

One ordinary day, he heard words
like the slash of a box cutter,
Your dad's in jail, your mom's been sober,
we're taking you home.
This skinny twelve-year-old bolted,
ran barefoot down broken cement, shouted,
I'd rather be dead than go back there.

The day he turned eighteen
Antoine was put out of the shelter.
Baggy jeans,
immaculate Nikes,
hair twisted in dreads,
a stuffed backpack slung over his shoulder,
he stood at the curb with no place to go,
bouncing his head to a Walkman beat.

Herman Sharp (1899-1918)

My great uncle was killed at Argonne,
his body buried in foreign soil.
For its first hometown casualty,
Maywood created a park,
inscribed his name in bronze.
Other wars, more dying.
The ground was renamed Veterans Park.
No relative was there to protest
and children who swing on the swings
don’t wonder.

Today the only proof I have of his life
is a faded photo postcard.
He’s posing in front of a fake cannon,
the Capitol painted as background.
Crisp uniform, broad smile.
His buddy close at his side.
The message: Dear Mom and Dad,
See the new watch on my wrist.
How many hours, days until
innocence fell to artillery fire?

Lake Carnegie, Late Afternoon

Orange sky
slips below the tree line.
College oarsmen, stroke by stroke,
slice ever-graying water.

On the road, arms awhirl,
a legless man, wheelchair-bound,
placard round his neck
– I’m a homeless Vet.

All race against the fading light,
resolute on course.
One outwitting midnight’s chill,
others to the boathouse.

English Summer
Idmiston, Wiltshire

Outside, we stare up in silence. The sky,
rife with secrets, has shed another mystery.
We wonder aloud if this could be a hoax.
No matter. An excellent excuse for celebrating
til the 3 am ritual, trucks rattling past the door
on the rutted road from Porton.
Two kilometers away, hidden in the sleepy
countryside, a chemical warfare plant.
Cargo, toxin-filled containers bound for the sea.

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