The Old Country

by Victor David Sandiego


of a large wooden barrel
rolling to you
down a STEEP hill
on a narrow street
your mother inside


your name, her mouth full of pudding
and nails.


is how I see you
when the morning BARKS me awake
and I, from solitude

bare face, sun baked
streaming with tears

(of joy)

climb from the mask.

Tags: Poetry