It’s Your Turn

“OK, it’s your turn now,”
My younger brother
Carefully hands me
The dice and waits.
I might be playing this
Simple board game, but
My attention is drawn
Out into the hallway:
To voices raised again.
Someone slams a door
Shut, only for it to be
Ripped open again,
Nearly off of its
Loosened hinges.
The voices have moved
To the kitchen, louder
Accusations have been made.
The sound of breaking glass
Makes me hold my breath;
The pause afterwards is
Prolonged and deafening.
Footsteps march to the
Broken screen door,
The dirty pickup truck
In the driveway starts
Itself up and roars away.
I can hear her crying
In the kitchen, alone.
The muscles in my chest
Tighten and release:
I am breathing again.
“Well, are you gonna go?”
My brother asks me, and
In my head I answer that
I wish we could.

MSBQ

The Passage of Memory

He stood cautiously
Outside the threshold
Between their worlds.
It seemed a simple thing,
But something told him
He had been here before.

Finally, he strode inside.
She greeted him, again,
With a nod of her head
And an ever-so-slight wink.
His eyes seemed different,
As if the light behind them
Did not recognize her face.

“You don’t remember me?”
She asked with a long sigh.
“I’m sorry, I just don’t…”
He trailed off. No matter
How much he tried, she
Was a stranger to him.

As his feet carried him
Through that open door,
All memories, the good
And all the bad, vanished.
In their place was a vague
Sense of having had this
Same conversation
Many times before.

MSBQ

Americana

For a nation born in
Protest and fire, we
Tend to ignore all of
The impossible beauty
Of our promised land.

The muted reds
Of canyons wide,
Or the melodies of
A fiddle at sunset.
The silence of the
Extinct wild buffalo,
Or the shifting lanes
Of corn farmer’s gold.
Our country stands
Atop whiskey barrels
And picket fences.

Not all memories are
Pleasant ones, though
Still they have value.
Our past is mired in the
Coppery tang of blood
Spilled without cause,
Of gunpowder clouds
And the quiet wail of
Lost sons and daughters.

Our liberty is man-made,
The true wealth here
Lies in the soil and the
Spirits who have long
Since fallen away.

MSBQ