Racine 1950

Days we walked to Oscar's store. It was dark,

and crammed with food whose smells and names

my grandfather liked: blutwurst, clabber.

There were black boulders of loaves, and violet

twigs of deep sea fishes dried to lace.

Oscar gave me candy, or blackjack gum. We talked

Across the street, "old fool Sorris's" bold young bride,

stripped to the sweetbreads, lay athwart a hammock

in her Sheena jungle clout and read comics, lips moving,

or stretched out her long legs water-colored and pink

and absently prodded the belly and saffron heart

of Riki, her yappy Peke.

Sorris would poke his angry spud of a face

around the screen door: just checking.

He and my grandfather, enemies from boyhood, piped

insults

and sneered behind smelly stogies: "Soreass!" jeered

Grandpa,

and of the luxury dog Rikitiki, "Ratbait!"

Then we walked slowly home

(so different from a father's breakneck breakheart pace:

impossible to keep up, to hold on tight)

and he told my mother I'd been good.

She hugged me, and I got to wear

her rose quartz star in my hair.

Spring days were plumed with pink lilac, but one

midnight

black as hell I woke bolt upright and knew

I'd heard them: the robbers, who would

get me first. Hot tears, cold sweat.

Oh, I wept and prayed to Jesus and God

and to "GRANDMA! GRANDMA", that blue-eyed

English angel. Grandpa heard me,

stumped up grumping: he'd like to see the bastards try it.

He showed me the shotgun, bayonet fixed, the old

Boche rifle

with its single wolvish fang. I sobbed with relief,

then smiled, then slept. Lean

mandrakes of robbers were buried, yards deep.