Sunday, May 30, 2010

A Concerned German Mother

Leather - 117 Words
Aaron Dethrage

I've yet to understand why you judge us so,
your wrinkle-scarred brow and your tight-clinched toes,
as if we are, ourselves, to blame.

If time is the teacher of how to heal,
and those years've all vanished with the haze of your fears,
why then, do the days of your hate stay near?

It is my father's father that even recalls the march,
the stiff leather jackets and war-emblemed arms,
their guns like graph lines straight and stark.

Now I have a daughter, eyes blue, coat fair.
I hold her at night, and I twirl her curled hair.
I dream up a world without troubles or care,
but still lingers the judgment in her classmates' cold stares.

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