Charles Farrell © 2010 All Rights Reserved
We drank lots of Dew Drop soda, drew up maps in our heads and let the
trees be our guide: The squirrels always ran, ours was small-town
carnage about which I remember little. Memory is a funny thing: The
way extremes get built up and corner our hysteria; the way other
things all melt. Iíve forgotten Vivian Warnick, the way her face, her
blessed head, was a tiara built entirely to rest upon her neck. How I
wanted that neck on Friday evenings, what we mightíve done, restless
and necking. She got lost in my slideshow of bones and flesh. I
painted my room ivory, it was all I knew to rebel. I set a radio by
the bed, kept it on overnight and let the hum tuck me in. It was 1974.
Peter Joseph Gloviczki lives in Minneapolis. He has new poems in Barn Owl Review, Haydenís Ferry Review, Margie and New Orleans Review.
Table of Contents Next Poem Guidelines