10 August 2007



              Not Home

              I was eight, and alone.
              Waiting in the garden I talked
              to trees. Seeds sprouted.
              Crickets sang. In the house
              Grandma lay dying.
              Caught an insect, held it
              in my hand. Plucked a leg off,
              as I softly sang. Very cruel,
              very bad. Surely Papa would
              come home, if I were bad.
              Make me hurt, for being bad.
              One more leg then, and another.
              Time crawled. I lost count.
              Finally there were no more legs,
              but Papa wasn’t home.
              I dropped the useless insect
              on the ground. In the house
              Grandma went on dying.
              On and on her body twitched,
              till I crushed it with a stone.
              Papa wasn’t home.
posted by Gilbert at Friday, August 10, 2007

1 Comments:

Blogger riverlight said...

and I never made it home in time too ... in the name of the nation. what a joke! what a joke

September 17, 2007  

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