CHILDREN 1957
Cousins, boy-girl, boy-girl,
boy-girl, boy, lined up
on the couch and kicking
their Keds for Kool-Aid.
The wallpaper of the living
room: Asian peonies
on a background of pink.
A Punjabi family– four
boys in turbans somber
before the camera,
their mother in headscarf
behind them, her fingers
on the shoulder
of the scarfless young daughter.
Three Irish children posing
on the plow of a steam
locomotive. Eleven children
of various births in their
Sunday best except for the littlest
who is a cowboy.
Eight children riding
on a platform on the back
of an elephant. A small
teepee; a pile of toy rifles.
CHILDREN 1963
hit by water cannon
walking single file
between motorcycle cops
children eaten by police dogs
escorted to the school bus
by soldiers
children waiting for Santa
sitting on the dock
gathering in the gymnasium
children posing with Joan Baez
chased by a flock
of angry geese
dying in an earthquake
handcuffed
children posing with RFK
playing soccer behind barbed wire
leaving the funeral
swinging on chains
children laughing at the iron dogs
buying ice cream
listening to teacher
LONG STORY SHORT
Mrs. Green was pretty miffed
I could not keep
my eyes open during
American History because
the night before I caught
Tennessee Ernie Ford
at the fairgrounds
with my folks.
In class we were watching
Johnny Tremain—he fused
his hand together with molten silver—and
before you knew it
I was sawing wood. Trip
to the Principal, phone call,
world apocalypse, boys like
me would die in a rice paddy,
in the hot sun, hundreds
of flies chewing on my face.
My mom apologized.
Sixteen tons and what
do you get? Monsanto
sold their flaming jelly.