The old house with its stone fire places,
sun dried front porch, and rolling clay-mountain fields.
It’s orchards, gardens, and the barn where rose sits
reading and hiding , hiding and reading to avoid the switch.
The old house, where rose and star
Make up plays, story books, songs and skits.
They share them with their rag dolls
and yesterdays orange peels, left over from breakfast.
In her mind, Rose slides over the hilltop,
over a rainbow and lands in a tree swing singing.
In the rainbow the air blows, on the swing/
her hair floats Flaxen. From the rainbow her eyes borrow blue.
World War II looms in the background
And war prisoners help papa plow the garden.
Jungmädchen Schönheit blondhaarig blaue Augen
They smile at the pretty girl and speak Germanic adoration.
Blue eyes and shimmering blond hair.
That evening her sister Yasmine picnics by lake sophistication.
Her pure flesh softens in folds for the American soldier,
Who promises to be home soon.
The bombardier on duty takes drugs, before the
Hiroshima skyline reminds him of the pain of killing.
A fetish of opiate fruit he picked up on the island,
now helps him monopolize meaning to foster his task.
Somewhere a nun lies prostrate,
A Jesuit cries freedom,
A Muslim packs,
Buddha sits.
The all have until morning to learn, new survival.
Their bodies fail them.
Poets fail them.
Souls cry,
where are you shining Deity.
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