Occurrence Poem by Francis Poole

OCCURRENCE

A very long time ago
when I was five years old
I had a girlfriend.
She was, as I recall, my first.
We were the same age and
her name was Marsha.
She had dark brown eyes and
short brown hair with bangs
kind of like Scout in the movie,
To Kill a Mockingbird.
We lived near each other
on the edge of Naples, Florida
close by the Everglades.
There was a pine woods nearby
that we would sometimes explore.
We weren't allowed to cross the road
where a family of Seminoles lived
in their thatched roof chickees.
Sometimes we would pretend
we were Indians
and look for turtles and lizards.
Back among the scrub and palmettos
lived an old man in a small trailer.
Sometimes he would be friendly
and talk to us.
One time he showed us a wooden box
filled with pretty rocks.

Sometimes he let us play in the clearing
outside his front door.
One day we took a walk
through the woods near his trailer.
As we got closer he came outside
and started yelling.
Then he pointed something at us
and there was a loud "crack"
that sounded like a huge limb breaking.
I was holding Marsha's right hand
in my left.
As soon as I heard the "crack"
Marsha screamed, grabbed her stomach
and started running toward
a nearby open-air laundry
where the women gathered to wash clothes
and gossip.
I ran after her and could see
the front of her white t-shirt was red.
I looked at my hand and there was
blood on my fingers.
A couple of the women came running,
picked her up and carried her
inside the wash house
where the other women were gathered.
Loud shrieks and cries
poured from that bundle of women.
I couldn't see what happened
after that.

It turned out the old man
had fired a rifle at us
for some unknown reason.
The bullet had gone through
Marsha's right hand,
the hand I was holding,
and into her body
yet somehow missed me.
A policeman asked me questions
I could not answer.
Later I was told the old man
didn't get arrested
but after a few weeks
he and the trailer were gone.
No one mentioned Marsha after that
and I never saw her again.
This story might contain a lesson
though it's probably not one
you're thinking of.
Relating what occurred so long ago
isn't meant as a prelude
to anyone's guilt, shame
or idea of absolution.
Is it merely payment
for a gift I was given long ago
and never understood?
A memory revived for Marsha's sake
as much as for mine?

There's a Cherokee saying that goes:
Don't let yesterday
take up too much of today.
An hour or two from now
you probably won't even remember
the little girl
with a mangled hand
wearing a blood-soaked t-shirt
running like a napalmed child
in a wartime newsreel.
But I will.


--Francis Poole