* This is a piece of fiction written first person through the eyes of a child. This is a collected amalgamation of experiences I have heard over the years, and it is not meant to reflect any aspect or piece of my life. I have no Aunt Desiree, nor do I know the James in this poem.
Prompt for contest: Quote: The demons that dwell within. ~ Gerald W. Locke, Jr.
~ Take this prompt where you may. There can and will be many various interpretations of this quote. No more than twenty lines and no more than six words per line.
Unpretty
Masticated sobs cut the sky
sight of mailman’s letter.
Aunt Desiree faints
before grey envelope is opened
divulges grave knowledge.
He’s dead! It's my fault!
Mama shrieks, sisters bracing her fall -
James officially confirmed dead.
Before Darfur, Palestine,
Desert Storm, Afghanistan, Korea,
where Father escaped cognizant,
lives eternally shattered
like herbs ground by marble pestles.
Families faced military papers
casualties of war’s glitter.
Some only culled white noise.
People pontificate personal tribulations.
Vietnam was commensurate:
global colossal waste, scars imbedded
in defiled gunshot wounds.
