REFUGEE
One of the first things I remember
was being locked out of my house,
unable to raise the dead, it seemed,
in just my diaper and mismatched
shoes,
not a person in the late night
streets
to see a three-and-a-half-year-old
make a journey in torrential rain,
the gutters filled and running
like creeks
up to my knees stepping off a curb,
I walked in the middle of the street
between cars and trucks and dark
houses,
the thunder overhead exploding
like bombs or colliding box cars
making me start and start again,
the sky lighting up like a brush
fire
then the lights of a city gone out
and in a second the houses
would rattle from the crack and
boom,
the downpour deluging my head,
filling my shoes and streaking
my cheeks,
merging with tears from my blurred
eyes,
block after block down the brick
street
to a familiar porch and light
and someone I trusted would be
safe.
I remember a few years later
our family huddled around
the Philco, and by the stunned
silence
I knew this pearl was something
sad.
But, of course, I really didn't
know
what was going on. Then my father
and uncle had to go off to war,
and we gave away some of our pans
and ate Karo syrup not sugar,
and Sunday drives were rationed
in stamps
as I held my father's signal cards.
Even more confused, I stood that
night
bawling on the porch until a large
hand guided me in and rubbed my
hair
with a towel and wrapped my shivering
body in terry and, cowled, I curled
knees up on the couch right next
to him,
my head, hard, against his breathing
chest,
and told over and over bits
and pieces of what had happened
on my walk toward warmth and words
exchanged.
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