1943

Turns out it was a war
I was born in but how could I know
that? I dragged and padded around,

my pudgy little gimme hands
held out for whatever
was offered and I was happy

with the little rips of Wonder
Bread, the occasional trips half-way
to the ceiling, the big hands in my pits

to stop the fall, the way a face coming at me
would just crack open—
mouth and cheeks spreading

up, teeth bared and bright and
good. Everything seemed right, even
the yeasty stink of twisted diapers heaped

in the tub, smashed Lucky Lager cans
in the yard, the duffel bag parked at the door,
the urgent radio man talking

in the kitchen, the exploding
voices in the farthest room
and I can almost remember

waiting in my bed rocking,
watching through the rungs
to see what came next,

drooling a little and almost
knowing how to think:
Well now. Here I am.

 

Poems by Kathleen Lynch: