elysabeth faslund

Rookie (11/23/49 / Thibodaux. Louisiana)

Rock Stew...From a Child's View


I watched my mother's hand stirring a boiling pot of rocks.
She said the moss covering the rocks made good soup.

I cannot taste anything anymore.

She puts something in the soup to make me sleep.
Sha says when I sleep, I won't be hungry.
I smile.

I watched my father's hands putting bullets in his gun,
then wiping them on his bare chest.
We had meat, then. And bread.
At night we laughed around our fire.

But strangers in the mountains were angry with us.
My father never came back.

My mother leaves at night. Sometimes.
She thinks I am sleeping.

One day a man brought us food, but I threw it up.
Dogs fought to eat it.

It will rain today. Lots of new moss on the rocks.
And scorpions.

I look at my hands.
I have never been hurt by them.

I am very lucky.

Submitted: Saturday, September 04, 2010
Edited: Monday, August 12, 2013

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  • Veteran Poet - 3,170 Points Bri Edwards (5/18/2013 9:05:00 PM)

    this deserves a comment....i think. but what shall it be? ? this sounds like the outline for at least a short story.
    i'm not sure that it qualifies as a poem (who am i to say?) but it sure is a lot more interesting than a lot of poems i've read. i, of course, can't help but wonder if it is a true story about your childhood. thanks for sharing, elysabeth. how ya doin'? bri (Report) Reply

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