What Rough Beast | Poem for September 24, 2019

Ana Fores Tamayo
Elegy to a Refugee Girl

The teacher collected the young child’s drawing.
Looking it over, she stared intently
at the little girl’s work:
she saw
a young child, separated by bars.
a large splash of crimson covering the trees she had drawn.
A larger lady in the background faraway,
brown on brown her hair falling wildly
on the page,
so that all she could see
were splashes of sepia with a little green
but much more blood red.
the wild woman seen in the image
had something shackling her ankle,
her face blotched with droplets upon her cheeks.

What did you paint?
the teacher slowly questioned
the young child with the immense, sorrowful eyes.
And the girl looked up, giant eyes tearing,
voice quivering,
repeating softly–
my mami, she whispered.
my mami was taken away.
She flew to the trees there, to the blue in the sky.
She was put in that carcel, you see?
but her spirit flew
like the birds when they soar through the sky, stormy yet safe.

And the teacher stared at the sanguine red, what seemed
to be the color of gore,
and again she gazed inquisitively at the child…

My mami is a rose,
and the wilderness in her spirit breaks free
as she wails for my papi, red blood screaming pain.

Me escondi, a stifled sigh to the teacher.
Tenía miedo…

I hid myself under the cama, the bed skirt muting
my silent shrieks
as I saw my papi’s red sangre spilling from him.
I stayed still and quiet under that bed
afraid they would see me,
those ugly green suits
taking my papi and hitting him, again and again,
so that he
became a scarlet jumble of pain.

my mami had no time to react as those ugly men
took her and threw her on top of me…
they did not know I was hiding under the bed.
But my mami knew, and she tried to be still
as the beasts tore into her, they ripped off her clothes, I think,
they strangled her cries, they heaved themselves
on top of her.
First one, then the other. Then a third.

My mami did not move.
I sang blue songs in my head and listened to the fairy birds
ringing out their tune of love, of my mami and papi
and their love for me…

It was a long time the men were there and my mami not moving.
But finally what seemed to hump and hump and hump again
stopped moving,
and the bad ugly men in their green army suits all splattered with red were gone.

I stayed under the cama, afraid to come out
afraid to have the red stain my hands, sink through my fingers.
so I crawled into myself, staying below.

But finally I felt some movement.
My mami came back from the skies
from the blue heavens with the loros singing…
she did not leave me, she stayed that rosa in the ground
for her baby girl.
my mami stumbled almost falling.
She lowered her body
crawling beneath that cama,
holding me, closely, loving me, touching me to make sure I was real
flesh and bone and not the red of my father,
the body limp without movement.
His eyes—I finally saw—were open wide staring blankly
at nothing. No heaven was open to his
rust stained drip
spilling all over the floor.

I knew my mami was hurt.
I knew it was hard to walk
but we took off, my mami and me,
and we traveled the death roads for heaven
thinking if we made it to el norte, good people would see us and
gather us into their embrace.

How strange it is that I am here in a school while my mami
is jailed for a crime she never committed?
For being forced by some bad bad men and she only trying to save me?
Why is it that others do not see mi dolor, my mami’s ache,
because I weep inside
like a salamander devastated by poison?

The teacher looked at my drawing again, then she looked at me.
I saw her face, too, blotched with droplets upon her cheeks…

Why does she cry like my mami? And will I see my mami again?
Why do these ugly men — now wearing blue suits instead of the green I despise —
take my mami away?
Why have they placed me in this escuela,
in this place with other sad children who
say nothing look at nothing feel nothing
because ellos también tienen miedo?

Please teacher, maestra, take me to my mami.
Don’t let her cry alone, por favor…
Don’t let her fly in that cell room forsaken,
let me be with my mami, please.
I don’t want to learn English,
I don’t want fine things if my mami is destroyed in your cell.

the young girl with the immense, sorrowful eyes
voiced long silent stabbings with her muted gaze.

You are killing me, not softly, not kindly, she uttered.

killing
killing
killing
killing

Oda a una niña refugiada

An interpretation, not translation
(because translation is never poetry)

La maestra recogía lo que había dibujado la niñita.
Al verlo, miró fijamente
el trabajo de su pupila:
observó en la página
una pequeña mocosa, separada del mundo por barras.
Una gran capa de carmesí cubriendo los árboles.
Una señora en el fondo lejano,
marrón contra marrón, su cabello salvajemente golpeando
la página.
Solo percibía
retazos de sepia con un poco de verde
y mucho más rojo de sangre.
La indómita mujer que contemplaba en la imagen
tenía un grillete encadenando su tobillo,
la cara manchada de lágrimas.

¿Qué pintaste, corazón?
La maestra preguntaba lentamente
a la pequeña pupila con unos ojos inmensos, tristes.
Y la chiquita levantaba su vista, ojos gigantes, sollozando,
su voz temblorosa
repitiendo suavemente—
mi mami…susurró.
Mi mami fue secuestrada.
Ella voló hacia los árboles allá, hacia el azul celeste del cielo.
A ella la metieron en esa carcel, ¿entiende?
Pero su espíritu se escapó
como los pájaros cuando se elevan hacia el cielo, tempestuosos pero seguros.

Y la maestra contemplaba el rojo sangre, lo que parecía
ser un monstruoso derrame,
y una vez más miraba a la niña curiosamente…

Mi mami es una rosa, decía,
y el desierto en su espíritu se libera
mientras ella llora por mi papi, dolor de sangre y llantos.

Me escondi…susurró un sofocado suspiro a la maestra.
Tenía miedo

Me escondí bajo la cama, las sábanas cubriendo
mis silenciosos gritos
al ver la sangre escarlata de mi papi.
Me quedé quieta quieta bajo esa cama enorme,
con miedo que me sospecharan,
esos feos trajes verdes
atrapando a mi papi y golpeándolo, una y otra vez,
mientras él
se convertía en un caos de sangre y pena.

Mi mami no tuvo tiempo de reaccionar cuando esos feos hombres
la tiraron encima de mí, la raptaron…
no sabían que yo estaba escondida bajo la cama.
Pero mi mami sí lo sabía, y ella se quedaba quieta quieta
cuando esas bestias le arrancaban la ropa, cuando se la clavaban,
le estrangulaban sus gritos, se lanzaban
encima de ella
Primero uno, luego el otro. Después, un tercero otra vez más.

Y mi mami no se movía.
En silencio, yo cantaba canciones azules y escuchaba a los pájaros,
entonando su melodía de amor, de mi mami y mi papi
y su amor por mí…

Pasó mucho tiempo con esos hombres allí mientras mi mami no se movía.
Finalmente, lo que parecía cascar y cascar y cascar otra vez
dejó de moverse,
y esos grotescos, sus trajes de ejército salpicados de rojo, desaparecieron.

Me quedé bajo la cama, con terror de salir,
con terror de mancharme las manos de sangre, ese rojizo de muerte hundiéndose entre mis dedos.
Huí dentro de mí, enterrándome en las tinieblas de la noche.

Pero finalmente sentí algo de movimiento.
Mi mami regresaba de los cielos,
desde ese horizonte azul con los loros cantando…
ella no me dejó, mi mami; se quedó como esa rosa en la tierra
con su hija adorada.
Sin embargo, se tropezaba, casi caía.
Agachaba su cuerpo,
arrastrándose debajo la cama,
y me sostenía cerquita, amándome, acariciándome, asegurándose que era real,
carne y hueso y no el rojo de mi papi,
su cuerpo sin movimiento.
Sus ojos—finalmente los vi—estaban abiertos, mirando fijamente
a la nada. Ningún cielo quedaba abierto a su
goteo infinito, manchado de óxido,
derramándose por el suelo de piedra.

Sabía que mi mami estaba herida.
Sabía que era difícil caminar
pero igual nos escapamos, mi mami y yo,
y viajamos por los caminos de la muerte hacia el cielo,
pensando que si lográbamos llegar al norte, gente buena
siempre nos acogiera en su abrazo.

¡Qué extraño estando aquí en una escuela mientras mi mami
se encuentra en la cárcel por un crimen que no cometió!
Por haber sido violada y ella ¿solo tratando de salvarme?
¿Por qué es que los demás no ven mi dolor, el dolor de mi madre?
¿Por qué lloro dentro
como una salamandra herida por un veneno siniestro?

La maestra contemplaba mi dibujo, y luego me miraba.
Yo notaba su cara también, sus mejillas manchadas de lágrimas…

¿Por qué llora la maestra igual que mi mami? ¿Y volveré a ver a mi mami?
¿Por qué esos feos—ahora de azul en lugar del verde que odio—
atrapan a mi mami y se la llevan lejos de mi?
¿Por qué me han puesto en este frío colegio,
en este lugar con otros tristes niños que
no dicen nada, no miran nada, no sienten nada
porque ellos también tienen miedo?

Por favor maestra, teacher, lléveme a mi mami.
No la deje llorar sola, oh please
No la deje volar abandonada en la celda,
déjeme estar con mi mami, le ruego.
No quiero aprender inglés,
No quiero cosas buenas si mi mami cae destruida en su celda.

la niña con los ojos tristes e inmensos
anunciaba agotados silencios
apuñalando esa mirada apagada.

Me están matando, decía. No suavemente, no cariñosamente.
Me están…
asesinando
asesinando
asesinando
asesinando

NOTE FROM THE EDITOR: This poem previously appeared in Literary Yard. What Rough Beast does not generally post previously published work, but what started out as a faux pas blossomed into a thrupple, and we’re sticking with it.

Poems by Ana Fores Tamayo have appeared in Acentos ReviewThe Raving PressRigorousChaleur MagazineMemoirPoxo PressChachalaca ReviewThe Evansville ReviewK’inLaurel ReviewDown in the DirtTwist in TimeSelcouth Station, and Fron//tera, as well as in the anthologies Poets Facing The Wall (The Raving Press, 2018), edited by Gabriel H. Sanchez, and The Spirit It Travels: An Anthology of Transcendent Poetry (Cosmographia Books, 2019), edited by Nina Alvarez. Her photography has appeared in journals and has been exhibited in shows, often displayed along with her poetry.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for September 23, 2019

CL Bledsoe
Escape Plan

Don’t ask me to say the word August
unless you’ve got an escape plan.
Outside the window, it’s all center-stagers
drowning in the nonchalance
of development. Concrete is another

way of saying the only love is fear.
Maybe you’re not giving it a chance.
Blood on the upper lip shows they haven’t
forgotten their faith. Really, tell me
what else anyone has to offer that’s better

than the sewer? Does God channel
fresh water? Does love prevent
cholera? This is the hard truth no one
wants to admit. If it would stop
raining, I’d order delivery.

CL Bledsoe is the author of the poetry collection Trashcans in Love (Ghoti Fish Press, 2017). His latest short story collection is The Shower Fixture Played the Blues (Ghoti Fish Press, 2019). His latest novel is The Funny Thing About…  (Spuyten Duyvil Publishing, 2018). Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter and blogs, with Michael Gushue, at How To Even….

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What Rough Beast | Poem for September 22, 2019

Deborah Bacharach
The Polls Say We Drink Wine

America needs to buy a mop because the old one’s
covered with shit from last week when
the toilet overflowed because we chose
the soft two-ply paper in the back of the closet
left over from when we thought it was no big deal.

America had a delightful midlife crisis—motorboats,
dancing. We drank two wines: sweet and sweeter.
The bread had a crown of salt.
We always think we have more time.

Deborah Bacharach is the author of After I Stop Lying (Cherry Grove Collections, 2015). Her work has appeared in The Southampton Review, The Antigonish Review, Pembroke Magazine, and Cimarron Review, among other journals, and in the anthologies Jump Start: A Northwest Renaissance Anthology (Steel Toe Books, 2009), edited by Lonny Kaneko, Pat Curran, and Susan Landgraf; A Fierce Brightness: Twenty-Five Years of Women’s Poetry (Calyx Books, 2002), edited by Margarita Donnelly, Beverly McFarland, Micki Reaman, and Carole Simmons Oles; and Sex and Single Girls: Women Write on Sexuality (Seal Press, 2000), edited by Lee Damsky. She lives in Seattle where she a writing tutor. Online at DeborahBacharach.com.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for September 21, 2019

Judith Skillman
Time as Infection

Past and future beckon forward, backward,
take the gray dust of years, plow it under.
Before bed you become old. While downstairs
it could be yesterday, upstairs, flights become
tomorrow. Nowhere does the now flourish.
The present’s undernourished—a runt coyote,
a spindly animal too young to count,
too yellow not to fear. Hunger in those

red eyes, the glint of an inhuman hide
poised to take what it needs, just as you did.
For that you’ve suffered. Galileo, forced
into house arrest, said sotto voce,
Nonetheless, the earth moves around the sun.
When did history
become your life?

Judith Skillman is the author of Came Home to Winter (Deerbrook Editions, 2019) and 15 other poetry collections. She has received grants from Artist Trust and the Academy of American Poets. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, Cimarron Review, Zyzzyva, We Refugees, and elsewhere. Visit judithskillman.com.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for September 20, 2019

Melinda Thomsen
Sunflower Triage with a Hint of Streisand

A rabbit lopped off the first,
slicing its stem with precision.
Its leaves shriveled, but with a fresh
cut and propped by chopsticks
in water some roots appeared.

Hurry, it’s lovely up here.
On the exterior, it’s cheerier.
Life down a hole takes an awful toll.

Days later, I found a sunflower
growing sideways in the cucumber
bed, unearthed but with roots.
Placed in a cup, it leaned
on a chopstick like a lame man.

You’ve got a pot to fill,
and what a gift package
of showers, sun and love.

Think of your own plot of earth
where your new roots finger
outward to pull in a nutrient,
or two. As I placed the flowers
in soil and sunlight, I heard,

Come poke your head out,
Open up and spread out.
It can’t be fun subterranean.

After several weeks, all stood
without a cane or crutch,
erect in newly dug furrows.
Although dwarfed, we stretched
upwards and turned sunward.

Wake up, bestir yourself,
it’s time that you disinter yourself.
You’ve got a spot to fill.

Melinda Thomsen is the author of  Naming Rights (Finishing Line Press, ) and Field Rations (Finishing Line Press, ). Her poems have appeared in Stone Coast Review, Tar River Poetry, The Comstock Review, and North Carolina Literary Review, among other journals. She is an advisory editor for Tar River Poetry and teaches composition at Pitt Community College in North Carolina.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for September 19, 2019

Cody Walker
Donald Trump on Black Friday

Black Friday is disrespectful!
Black Friday is an ignorant fool!
Why can’t it be called Friday?
I don’t see color!

Cody Walker is the author most recently of The Trumpiad, (The Waywiser Press, 2017), a fundraiser for the ACLU. His two earlier collections include The Self-Styled No-Child (The Waywiser Press, 2016) and Shuffle and Breakdown (The Waywiser Press, 2008). His work has appeared in The New York Times Magazine, Slate, and The Best American Poetry (2015 and 2007). He teaches English at the University of Michigan and co-directs the Bear River Writers’ Conference.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for September 18, 2019

Chad Parenteau
Brett Kavanaugh Jesus Tanka

Set calendars for
Brett Kavanaugh Jesus’
next last supper.
Please partake in his body
while leaving his blood alone.

Chad Parenteau is the author of Patron Emeritus (FootHills Publishing, 2013). His work has appeared in Tell-Tale InklingsQueen Mob’s Tea HouseThe Skinny Poetry JournalIbbetson Street, and Wilderness House Literary Review. He serves as associate editor of Oddball Magazine. His second full-length collection, The Collapsed Bookshelf, is forthcoming.

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What Rough Beast | Poem for September 17, 2019

Ana Fores Tamayo
My Father who…

My Father who art in heaven,
Are you really there? And where exactly are your azure skies?
Are your Elysian Fields some ethereal other
in some far-off realm,
or is it a little bit of paradise on earth,
a spotted leaf of green and yellow, harking to the sun,
a rooster cocking his sweet song come morning,
the smell of lusty café con leche at dawn’s break,
when I sleepily rise from bed,
while my husband hands me my morning mug,
the aroma of celestial heights gently lifting me from slumber?

hallowed be thy name.
Is your name Dios, Allah, Père, Gud, Yahweh, or Eloah?
Is it the trees shimmering gently in the winsome wind,
the thundering waves crashing along the salted seacoast,
the woodpecker tapping the tree trunk to scavenge its next meal,
the child reaching out for his mother’s breast?

Thy kingdom come.
thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
If your kingdom does arrive, when will that ever be?
We will soon need that glorious realm breaking dusty dawn,
or have you not seen this wily world fall apart in misery, at the seams,
In the horror of war and greed and pain?
Heaven seems Utopia, yet other earthly too:
nothing here to bear celestial fruit.
Agony faced by migrants, by children hungering at our borders,
fatigued mothers tying shoelaces that fall apart,
holding up torn-up trousers with a shoestring for their boys…
While the big fat men resort to golf clubs in their verdant fields,
Banks rolling in the opulence of few,
their taxed greens only for those full-bodied heavies
behind those gated columns rich in pompous pretense.
Yet the meek lay their wearied heads to rest
between the barred columns of those prison gates:
detention all they know.

Give me this day my daily bread;
I beg you, oh my God.
Give me hope, give me solace, give to them—not me—that little bit of mercy
That we all know can make or break a life…
and forgive me my trespasses,
for having, for not sharing, for enjoying life, for not caring
while little migrant children walk those miles, haunt those shadows,
wake those nightmare dreams…
as I forgive those who trespass against me;
let me cry next to the bully who raised his hand against me,
who called me names, who shattered my fragile ego.
Let me forgive myself for trespassing against my better self.

and lead me not into temptation.
let me find the tranquility of passion, the fruitfulness of gratitude,
the abundance of self-reliance, the fortitude of mercy.
Let me find that young child quivering, let me cover her in splendor,
in coats of strength, of compromise, of angel white.
but deliver me from evil. Deliver me to mercy…
oh my god

Padre mío que …

An interpretation, not translation
(because translation is never poetry)

Padre mío que estás en el cielo,
¿Dónde te encuentras en realidad? ¿Y dónde se hallan tus cielos azules?
¿Serán tus campos Elíseos de algún otro etéreo
en un reino lejano,
o será un poco del paraíso en la tierra,
una hoja iluminada de un verde cerúleo acercandose al sol ardiente,
un gallo declarando su dulce canto al amanecer de la alborada,
el olor de un sensual café con leche a primera luz,
cuando somnolienta, me levanto de la cama
mientras mi esposo me entrega una taza para iniciar el día,
y entretanto, ¿el aroma de las alturas celestiales me despierta suavemente del sueño?

Santificado sea tu nombre.
¿Será ese nombre Dios, Alá, Père, Gud, Yahvé o Eloah?
¿Serán los árboles brillando suavemente en el victorioso viento,
las escandalosas olas rompiendo a lo largo de una costa salada,
el pájaro carpintero martillando el tronco de un árbol para escarbar su próxima comida?
¿Encontraré tu nombre en el niño buscando el pecho de su madre?

Venga tu reino.
Hágase tu voluntad, en la tierra como en el cielo.
Si tu reino algún día llegara, ¿cuándo será ese entonces?
Pidamos que ese glorioso reino aparezca para desmoronar un polvoriento crepúsculo,
¿O no has visto el astuto mundo arrasado en la miseria, despedazándose,
¿Con sus temblores de guerra y codicia y dolor?
El cielo parece utopía; sin embargo, también simula otro terrenal.
Nada aquí para remunerar fruto divino.
La agonía que enfrentan los migrantes, los hambrientos niños en nuestras fronteras,
Las agotadas madres que atan zapatos con mil cordones siempre deshaciendose,
Esas invisibles héroes sosteniendo pantalones rotos con agujetas para sus hijos débiles…
Mientras que los corpulentos barrigones recurren a sus palos de golf para seguir jugando en sus verdosos campos,
Sus cuentas de banco bailando con la opulencia de ellos pocos,
sus fraudes fiscales gravados solo para ellos cuantos, los de cuerpo cargado
detrás de esas ciudadelas cerradas, prósperos en su pomposo pretexto.
No obstante, los sumisos bajan cabeza, cansados sin descansar
entre las columnas enrejadas de esas puertas sin salida:
detención lo único que alcanzan dominar.

Dame hoy el pan de cada día;
Te lo ruego, oh Dios mío.
Dame esperanza, consuelo, dale a ellos—no a mí—esa piedad,
la que sabemos puede formar o destruir la vida…
y perdona mis ofensas,
por tener, por no compartir, por disfrutar de la vida, por no preocuparme
mientras los pequeños angelitos migrantes caminan esas miles millas,
persiguen sus cerradas sombras,
despiertan esos sueños empedrados de pesadilla…
Como también perdono a los que me ofenden;
déjame llorar junto al guapetón que levantó su mano contra mí,
al quien me llamó feos nombres, quien destrozó mi frágil ego.
Perdóname por haber traspasado contra lo mejor de mi propio ser.

y no me dejes caer en la tentación.
Déjame acertar la tranquilidad de la pasión, el fruto de la gratitud,
la abundancia de mi libre albedrío, la fortaleza de la misericordia.
Déjame encontrar a esa pequeña niña temblando, cubrirla de esplendor,
En abrigos de fuerza, de compromiso, del ángel inmaculado.
mas líbrame de todo mal. Líbrame a la misericordia…
ohDios mío

Poems by Ana Fores Tamayo have appeared in Acentos ReviewThe Raving PressRigorousChaleur MagazineMemoirPoxo PressChachalaca ReviewThe Evansville ReviewK’inLaurel ReviewDown in the DirtTwist in TimeSelcouth Station, and Fron//tera, as well as in the anthologies Poets Facing The Wall (The Raving Press, 2018), edited by Gabriel H. Sanchez, and The Spirit It Travels: An Anthology of Transcendent Poetry (Cosmographia Books, 2019), edited by Nina Alvarez. Her photography has appeared in journals and has been exhibited in shows, often displayed along with her poetry.

SUBMIT to What Rough Beast via our SUBMITTABLE site.

If you enjoyed today’s poem, and you value the What Rough Beast series, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.

What Rough Beast | Poem for September 16, 2019

CL Bledsoe
Arachnophobia

A truck full of spiders backs up
to my front door. None of them
speaks French, but one is
an amazing juggler. They all wear
matching uniforms with a logo
I can’t read and mumble
something official-sounding.
I don’t even have cable,
is the thing. But I let them in.
One stands awkward near the door,
trying to make small talk, I think,
while the others riffle through
my refrigerator, my sock drawer,
the secret stash of emergency
Ramen noodles I hide from company.
They are here for my humanity,
I think. They search the bottoms
of my shoes, the books I’ve used
to squash intruders. Whenever
they find bloodstains, they pile
the things in the living room.
Twenty minutes pass. They gather,
silent, waiting for my explanation.
I’ve known this day would come,
but when I open my mouth,
nothing.

CL Bledsoe is the author of the poetry collection Trashcans in Love (Ghoti Fish Press, 2017). His latest short story collection is The Shower Fixture Played the Blues (Ghoti Fish Press, 2019). His latest novel is The Funny Thing About…  (Spuyten Duyvil Publishing, 2018). Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter and blogs, with Michael Gushue, at How To Even….

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If you enjoyed today’s poem, and you value the What Rough Beast series, consider making a donation to Indolent Books, a nonprofit poetry press.

What Rough Beast | Poem for September 15, 2019

Georgann Prochaska
We Need More Grandmothers

Grandma’s magical world
braided to the ordinary.
She tucked rock-like peaches
into sauna brown lunch bags.
Days later peach juice ran
down my chin with each bite.
To music we marched around the table—
dishes, toys, laundry
found their proper place.
When I wailed with a scraped knee,
spit hit her fingertips.
She brushed away blood.
“Go play. Let the air get to it.”
Her archipelago never coddled
but kept children safe.
Buds became blooms.

She didn’t know
a cinematic blizzard of dangers
awaited children.
Puffed up voices with murderous rules
questioned children eating peaches,
Playtime in trees, fresh air,
being safe in a grandmother’s arms.

In this new catawampus world,
full of hyperbole and sickness,
where nurturing children
hurts an authority’s bottom line,
Grandma would have stood up,
Bible in hand,
and marched.
“Shame on the brutes and cowards.”

My grandmother was like that.
Most grandmothers are,
and they grow well-rooted flowers,
not broken spirits.

Georgann Prochaska grew up in the Chicago area, studied literature at Illinois State University, and taught high school for thirty-four years. After retiring, she became a caregiver and learned about suspicions and secrets from her mother who had Alzheimer’s Disease. Those discoveries spun her into writing mysteries—two grandmothers, a Vietnam veteran, and a bloodhound. The Case of the Girl Who Didn’t Smile (Outskirts Press, 2015), The Case of the Hound Who Didn’t Stay (Outskirts Press, 2016), The Case of the Ex Who Plotted Revenge (Outskirts Press, 2017), Murder Comes To The Vineyard (Outskirts Press, 2016), and Murder Comes to Grindstone (Outskirts Press, 2019) are the five installments in the series to date. 

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