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.

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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.

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