Sally
we both became seven
as we had a year before
become six
and I never knew you
were the great cousin
at five and four
I knew you always
saw you in summers
it was that time
of world war two
when
we sang those songs
like on the radio
you played nurse
I was the soldier
on vj day
we were the ones
jumping up and down
with the small American flags
we played school
as we knew
first and second
grades
and you lived
far from me
in
Oklahoma City
but
I knew
in each and every summer
you were for sure ———
the war was over
and our fathers both survived
I went to the lyn view school
in a wood side car
each day
in East Tennessee
I didn’t know till after
your parents let you walk
then
one night
that just seemed like any other
I began to hate
our family phone
black heavy hateful thing
it rang
and I still want to turn down
the story on that line
after I learned
I didn’t want to know
maybe
the fault is
that we still live
and think
forever will
but you
stepped off the curve
and the hideous fire truck
ran you down
if I could have just
been there
to snatch you back
but they said
you were dead
they rarely lied
except
about santa
and that there were no more
cookies
never — night messages
from the devil phone
and
never was I silly enough
to think of
the policeman as my friend
but what
except to put out flames
do firemen do?????
in their big engines
horns screaming
and every time they do
I still think how
they
killed you!
