During The Mi Lai Massacre
The days were painted yellow for me then:
the Disney sun, a schoolbus neatly trimmed
in black, my cedar pencil box that held
the sharpened Number Twos. Mrs. Feldman's
daisy dress was brightly golden-hued.
She drawled us through the mysteries
of writing on the line. Mocking little birds,
we traced her lead, copying the curves
of "B," the slants of "A," the down of "J."
When a brassy horn would cry, we'd crouch
beneath our laquered desks, practicing defense
should the Russians reach our shores.
Covering our ears, our foreheads on our knees,
we knew they'd never get here: Dan'l Boone
or Underdog would thwart their evil plan
and, sure enough, each week the siren
ceased on cue and math began afresh.
Safely home, hot cornbread on our plates
with steak, khaki draped the nightly news
and yellow turned to red. Mrs. Mikalichik
had a son gone overseas. We watched,
but Mr. Cronkite never showed him on TV.
My best friend's older brother tried to dodge the draft
but her father said he'd kill him first, so Kenny
took up heroin and soon became the first
we knew to go to jail. We thought he was so cool.
9/4 - minor revision