Thinking about wars. . . . And my childhood, which was without father because of war. . . .

FloridaFan

Refugee River

Saturday matinees
for years those reels
were more real than my childhood

We had to watch that war
that is where my father
was, somewhere in that
grainy black and white

Was she hoping, praying
to catch a picture of him?
Him who was in a silver
frame next to my bed
so I would not forget
him. Next to hers.

But never did. Instead,
rivers of refugees, fleeing
now from this city, now
from that. Sometimes
because of us. Sometimes
because of "them."

Them made smoke and fire
them made the faces of the women
afraid, and the children, my
size, tormented. I didn't know that
word then. But I knew the
look on the face of the child
carried in a grandfather's arms.

And we hoped my daddy could fix it.

jjl

1/7/2007