Lucinda Sabino

Sticks and Stones

 


I have a friend who will not eat rice.
The nightmare of lying sodden in Viet Nam
flashes unbidden whenever he turns
his head suddenly. He went willingly
enough, tanked up on beer and god
knows what else. A boy, really, taking up arms.

This could be my brothers, a picture
of small boys on a road leading
from Hanoi. They swagger with improvised
swords. There will always be sticks, stones,
always the rubble of war scattered
along a narrow road.

And on that road, there are bones beneath them
where they play, as there are always bones
beneath us. Bones and the rusted parts
of jeeps, buckles, spent shells. Under roads,
rice paddies, Midwest corn fields, a Ford plant
in Detroit.

Under the boys willing to be soldiers.

Lucinda Sabino has spent over 50 years involved in the lives of children. She is a mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, and spent 20 years as the owner/operator of an infant and toddler day care center. Writing about the way family and culture dovetail, she draws on her travel experiences, especially those involving the varied lives of children. She has two poetry chapbooks, We’re Coming Close and Dancing in the Intersection. Part of the Detroit area poetry community, she has taught Advanced Poetry through Springfed Arts and is an active supporter of InsideOut Literary Arts.