It was spring, when tulips
show their pretty colors
and robins make nests
for small blue eggs.
I was ten, feeling cozy
on the sofa, leafing through
Mad, when comic book violence
came alive.
Driven by another fierce defense
of some imagined line crossed,
my parents had attacked
our upstairs neighbors.
Shrieks and pounding
clashed up and down
our common hall.
Our door slammed shut.
I didn’t want to but saw
my mother’s harrowed
face and arms,
my father dripping sweat
and his panting like a dog.
There was no place to hide.
For days, a strange quiet,
my parents were like ghosts.
A letter arrived,
then the cardboard boxes.
Books and jeans were packed
along with scars and ruin.
We were moving to a smaller flat.
On the way we passed a cemetery
with branches of dark trees
hanging above rows of stones.
I pictured myself underground
My stone said something sad;
most of the letters were faded.
After we got to the new place
I thought of surprising my parents
with something funny.
I crayoned a sign, making a blue
R.I.P., black for my name and dates
and red for birds in each corner.
I held the cardboard to my chest,
stretched out on the floor—
shut my eyes and waited.
—
Ira Schaeffer is a poet who reads his own poems and those of professional writers in various public venues throughout Rhode Island. His poetry has been published in a variety of small presses.
The Zingara Project 