It starts with the bagpipes.
The distant sound of horses'
hooves, the wind shuffling
through the birches. Young
men running naked through
the thorny bushes.
A girl drawing John Lennon on
a cardboard. Her mother weaving
threads through a Singer sewing
machine stopping to oil the crank.
The squeaky bottle spilling a drop
onto a garment.
A cough.
The gray sorrowful faces
from the television. Memorizing
the lyrics to a Beatles' song.
Rocky Raccoon.
Gideon's bible.
Her father's razors rusty.
Phlegm coughed up and spit
to the walls. Her father heavy
pacing the halls. Her mother
mopping the floors.
The woodwinds trailing,
the bagpipes whirling,
the boy next door sitting under
a mango tree. An old man
raking the leaves.
A dog whimpering.
A train whistle abandoning.
The sad faces in the television
witnessing. The hum of the
air conditioner. Your sister
shivering. Your father's soiled
underwear in the laundry basket.
(2014 Published in Pressure Press edited by Ron Androla)
About the Creator
Didi Menendez
I write about isolation.
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