The Old Country

by Victor D. Sandiego

Think

of a large wooden barrel
rolling to you
down a STEEP hill
on a narrow street
your mother inside

(screaming)

your name, her mouth full of pudding
and nails.

That

is how I see you
when the morning BARKS me awake
and I, from solitude

bare face, sun baked
streaming with tears

(of joy)

climb from the mask.

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