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I Haven't Always

by Lisa Marie Brodsky

I'm not usually like this.
I'm waiting for a sign
to start up again.
My engine chugging along,
lights dying,
I'm waiting for the green light
to start living.
Green light to tell me it's safe.
Meanwhile, I have ink stains
on my middle finger
from fighting on paper,
my only arena.

Then again I've been like this
since before I changed the channel
to adulthood.
My teens have lived
in the smoke-filled tips of mountains,
my early adulthood has been hiding
in bunkers from old wars.
I still cover my head from thunderstorms;
I knit nuclear safe body suits,
sizes for each age.
I admit I see the same years down the line.
They tell me the war doesn't have to continue,
but I'm so used to the smell of gunpowder,
the flashing lights, the kaBOOM of exploding bombs
so I bet I've always been like this.

I told my dolls to look for another mother.
They held my finger
said don't go, don't go
and I looked into their shiny eyes
and said I'm sorry, so sorry,
Mommy just can't rock you;
she can't rock herself.
She's waiting for the green light
to die
and they surrounded the seven year old in bed,
held each others' tiny mittened hands.

08/24/2006

Posted on 08/25/2006
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky

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