The Mailer Review/Volume 13, 2019/The Child: Difference between revisions

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{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|note=For David Koresh|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet1}}
{{byline|last=Cetrano|first=Sal|url=http://prmlr.us/mr13cet2}}
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">'''The Child'''</div>
{| cellpadding=5 style="width: 50%;"
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">Sal Cetrano</div>
|<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">
For years I’ve tried to bury<br />
<poem>For years I’ve tried to bury
the child in me: that last proud<br />
the child in me: that last proud
barber pole I stood in front of<br />
barber pole I stood in front of
as a boy, the new housing project,<br />
as a boy, the new housing project,
chain-lined walks, blacktop sweat,<br />
chain-lined walks, blacktop sweat,poverty just a spelling word.</poem></div>
poverty just a spelling word.<br /><br />
To rate responsibility, I’ve tried <br />
to rid myself of selfish <br />
evasion. It’s just as well<br />
that I move to Nepal! <br />
Someone believes, someone bleeds. <br />
A girl bolts screaming from bed,<br /><br />
her hands pathetic wild birds,<br />
a wooden man plods from<br />
the house of his single mind.<br />
At such times, when the cover<br />
is torn off catalog comforts<br />
and nothing grown seems full,<br /><br />
the child sliding head-first<br />
into home, center of a good idea,<br />
dustily rises, clear on the score,<br />
and the words that passed for life<br />
go in one ear and out the other,<br />
a naughty habit never broken.
</div>
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[[Category:Poetry (MR)]]

Latest revision as of 09:52, 3 March 2021

« The Mailer Review • Volume 13 Number 1 • 2019 »
Written by
Sal Cetrano
URL: http://prmlr.us/mr13cet2

For years I’ve tried to bury
the child in me: that last proud
barber pole I stood in front of
as a boy, the new housing project,
chain-lined walks, blacktop sweat,
poverty just a spelling word.

To rate responsibility, I’ve tried
to rid myself of selfish
evasion. It’s just as well
that I move to Nepal!
Someone believes, someone bleeds.
A girl bolts screaming from bed,

her hands pathetic wild birds,
a wooden man plods from
the house of his single mind.
At such times, when the cover
is torn off catalog comforts
and nothing grown seems full,

the child sliding head-first
into home, center of a good idea,
dustily rises, clear on the score,
and the words that passed for life
go in one ear and out the other,
a naughty habit never broken.

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