casa de mi padre

my father grew up from
red chert clay
a soil only hardened by
the light of day
monochromatic
almost overwhelming to the
unfamiliar

cotton, a little soybeans
anything green held hostage
forced to fight its way out

he was the youngest
the runt he always told me
skinny, big ears
his mother worried

he dreamed of easier fields
and believed my mother to be a
fair maiden whose
rocky soil dreams could heal

like poor renditions of
Bonnie and Clyde
they made a run for it

though similar
their fate involved
no ambush
they ran away
arrived

only to find
their own dreams
divergent
monochromatic
insufficient

I'm nothing like them
I hear myself say
but, unfortunately
less a statement
more
a question

dg

3/30/12

Sent from my iPad

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