artwork: ralph murre
August, 1945
by
Peggy Trojan
When I was twelve
we
stood around the radio
to
verify the news.
The
war was really over.
My
mother wiped tears.
My
father was quiet.
He
wasn’t even
in
the war,
having
lost sight
in
one eye at ten.
I rode to baby sit
in
Mr. Anderson’s boozy Ford.
When
he jammed to a stop,
all
the beer bottles
on
the back seat
crashed
to the floor
in
celebration.
~
previously published in Dust and Fire
