Sunday, March 5, 2017

Poetic Asides Ekphrastic painting


When my parents died
and we five girls
divvied up their belongings,
I became a proud owner
of a WWI uniform,
stuffed in a leather bag,
smelling like death.

The helmet, gas mask,
pants and shirt, brown,
and, oh, so small,
must have shrunk
over the century
because my grandfather
wasn’t that petite.

Or was he,
at twenty-something?
I also inherited
my dad’s WWII hat,
my oldest sister, his purple heart
for a head wound.
It’s a wonder we’re here at all.

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