I really would like to see this poem published, it would make my whole world.
Carousel
There is a photograph of us, taken
when we were children with sticky chins
and round eyes full of stories rich
like chocolate éclairs, fluffy
with the sweetest cream,
in our darling outfits, red and blue with stars,
orange soda can in my tiny hand,
candy fluff stuck to your little boy fingers,
at some festival before our turn
to ride the colorful horses
A curious girl full of questions,
I asked our mother if I could
rewind and fast forward
in my mind the way our then new
video recorder played back pictures.
She told me about memories
and how they are felt, how they live
in every smell and sound.
Now I see them as water
rolling in, around and
through my mind until
they freeze and fill in with time.
I picture you, still
little boy face on a man
in uniform, gun in hand
with grim look, dusty
and dirty in a land
I’ve never been to and
I can’t understand
muddy grit that fills
your old soul eyes and
shows hollows below.
That heavy look pulls
and twists me inside.
The feeling lulls
in the morning time
when the blender of ice
spins, shatters and slows.
