Part 1

She was 4 when she became aware of carnage, devastation and brutality;
she came in through the breezeway,
the red brick linoleum was sticky,
her grandmother was standing over the freshly cut sweet corn
singing “Sweet Adeline” ,
the girl crossed from the threshold of the kitchen into the dining room,
reality stings like acid –
her mother was towered viciously over her two year old sister,
cursing, slapping – the girl pulled on her mother’s arm, “STOP!”,
the mother turned with her hand raised to begin wailing on another victim,
the little girl tensed up, getting ready –
the mother hesitated – the little sister crawled away,
in a moment of clarity, the mother stomped off, cursing…
the girl went to her crying sister, red whelps over her tender skin,
“are you ok?”
the younger sister kicked the girl in the gut –
her way of saying, “I’m fine, leave me to lick my wounds;”
in those moments the poet was born,
the girl suddenly became aware of wishing not being born,
and her bunker was created behind the red vinyl couch,
still on the front lines,
still vulnerable to the brutal sounds of war.

– Michellia D. Wilson 8/23/14 8:20 AM part 1 of 24