Holly berries fill a Styrofoam cup,
picked
illicitly
From the top of the
Grey, peeling propane tank in the yard,
traded
for wild onions,
pulled from the Earth
where Grendel was buried --
underneath the old pine tree
which heard the cowboys and Indians,
Huddled ‘round a campfire,
Chanting.
A whispered song,
half forgotten,
muffled
by the sound of shouting,
a battle
seen through the gaps of her fingers
while sirens
drown
the sound
of screams.
Strangers,
who love the children
whose parents couldn’t even
love themselves,
comfort them with penny-pancakes.
But even Bugs Bunny knows what
“Their mother was on-“
“Shh, not in front of the kids!”
Who look around,
confused.
There are no kids, only
overcooked bacon,
sandwiches with crusts.
The piggies don’t have blankets.
How are they supposed
to go to the market?
They ask a silver knight,
with rainbow shoes
all colored in the lines,
hanging,
on the fridge,
for when mommy comes home.
And on the porch,
a spilled cup of crimson
seeps
slowly
into Memory.