The Darkest Hours

Portrait of you
Painting on my skin
4AM
Painting with my fingers
In pale, lonely darkness
Fingertips are my breath
Breath silhouette:
You.

December 2, 2015

When I thought of America
As a small child
I thought of soldiers saluting.
Of parades with Santas throwing candy
And my Girl Scout vest
Hung proudly in my closet
Next to my letter jacket
And the long dress I wore to church
On Easter Sunday.

I thought of sidewalk Christmas decorations
And puffing steam from our cheeks
And licking flag poles...and sticking.

I thought of funnel cake and fairs and blue ribbons
And rodeos and playing capture the flag with my cousins in the backyard
And Thanksgiving
And trick or treat
And swimming pools
And holding a boy's hand watching the fireworks
And folding the flag so carefully into a triangle while taps played and the sun sank low in the horizon.

And now I sit and ponder these things...
I can remember campfire marshmallows
And caramel apples
And hayrides and running through the yard with my black lab,
But instead of those images my Mind can't help seeing
A low-income woman hovered over a basin.
Her brow sweats and her hair strings and her mouth puffs;
She scrubs Old Glory over a washboard in the metal bucket of cold water,
She scrubs fervently
She scrubs diligently
She scrubs furiously,

But she cannot manage to wash out the blood.