Poetry Here (Mostly)

The Way of the Cross #245

I grew up in Brooklyn,

our rooms hitched together

railroad style, on one floor,

life just a shout away.


I was less than seven

when rheumatic fever

took my teen-aged cousin,

I have vague memories.


A priest gave his parents

the coffin crucifix,

for solace I suppose.

They nailed it to the wall.


My aunt and uncle’s house

country chirps and quiet.

Bedtime forced me upstairs,

to find my way alone.


Had to pass the Jesus

a funeral had risen.

Could not avoid his gaunt

body or naked eyes.


Across the hall, from where

I went to bed, should have

been my cousin’s room. Still

displayed his model planes.


I feared hurting someone’s

feelings, living, dying,

or dead, if I revealed

how ill at ease I felt.


Comments on: "The Way of the Cross #245" (1)

  1. I love when you write in the narrative form. What a tragedy and all from the child’s eye.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Tag Cloud

%d bloggers like this: