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We sit on our concrete patios,
next to our vinyl-sided houses. Ice cubes tinker in cups as we eat our grilled aparagus and watch the kids romp in the sprinkler. Cold, sugary rainbows drip down their faces. Reminiscent propaganda. Iconic American calendar. So sunny. Tangerine hued chatter fills the air and walls us into our festivities. We feel netted, vetted, and safe...for a while. Meaningless banter as grease sizzles and toddlers wriggle for another piece of apple pie. Selfies fly, statuses post, neighbors boast about their garden. But, no one speaks of atrocities Our sun-laden lawns are all the mowing we want. Let the ticketers take care of the rest. Surely, if this were a test of testimonials, we would all fail. No summer shandy behind the bars of jail, or on the bully buses heading for the river. And our kids quiver as the sun sets down. Little feet scramble for towels, as we shuffle our dead presidents, freshly laundered, into towers we will never step in. We grin as the nights' jubilation fuzzies our heads. Sip. Sip. No spirits in the rubble of other lands, of our land. But, we never speak of that. And our babies, fed and happy, toddle off to bed.
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The DNA
oozes from my eyes as I watch you lie, stiff and sticky fluid on the ground. Someone snatched you up. Someone snatched you down. Someone stopped you, from coming ‘round, before you had the time to grow. And the air is siphoned from my soul in some strange symphony of letting go. This orchestra of goodbyes resonates like the bloody baying of the devil’s hounds as I watch you lie… stiff and sticky fluid on the ground. And the DNA still oozes from my eyes. This was life, before the bombs came, and the carnage tore us apart. This was life, innocent melodies mixing hearts like a cocktail of breath and love. This was life, before the heinous shove into the darkened street of death and hate. And the drums beat a rhythm. And the strings scream like sirens we want to deafen. And the DNA streams from our eyes a matching tone for this Orchestra of Goodbyes. He smiles at me,
with fatherly glances and says hello. He jokes and pokes fun, asks me how my day is, all sticky sweet, like corporate sugar. But I know, I am just a number. Here today could be gone tomorrow, and he is a fortunate fellow. He has a whole web of fortunate bedfellows, nodding in unison like bobble-head dolls bedecking the walls of his golf tee and spreadsheet office. I line up the plates and dot the i's, still all the wise of my doormattery. I keep my smile painted, and deadlines met with efficiency. Hungry mouths depend on it. A pleasantry here, and a thank you there does not equate to me going nowhere. Doormats are a dime a dozen. I sip my coffee and understand I am merely cattle in this corporate land. Forty-five moles
harbored into the Tree of Life. “Just for a moment” they said, as they bored, deep and red, into the roots, teeth and claw gnashing ripe. Forty-five monstrous moles dug into the limbs with fury. Once a home for the multitude, now breached, undermined, and weakened in crude, devious fashion. “No need to worry” heeded the critters, the no-good, nocturnal hitters that chawed at the fibers so many creatures called home. “We’re here to help, and fix all your problems, to ward off your enemy, and stable the wobblems that you know nothing about.” And the forty-five ill-intended moles set about creating holes for all of the other lives to fall into. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |
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