Christmas Poem

At six Grandpa’s hands were calloused.
He leaped onto beaches, over wires,
dying to meet evil’s swelling.
Four brothers dead. He limped
to the factory for decades.

Grandpa thrusts his rant
from his aching
lungs. Mother listens
every Christmas
about the War and his
glories.

(Left in silence is the nigger’s
teeth planted on the lawn,
and her brother.)

This generation doesn’t know!
He settles on the couch, coughs
hard into his handkerchief.
Their damn ipods and gizmos!

(I watch
Grandpa’s wrinkly face.
I smile, and laugh with him.)

Mother fixes her hands
to the tree. She can’t think
about her brother being
disowned years ago.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s