Juice in all his dreamy sunshine photo by MDG

Juice dreaming of sunshine backyard KC. Photo by MDG

SOMETIMES HAMSTERS EAT THIER YOUNG

Sometimes I climb mountains
just to punch an echo.
But it is always out of reach.
Maybe my anger started the day my
mom's hand twisted the door knob.
Her reflection rounded elongated in copper tarnished
by people walking out.
I was only six but I remember birds a train
going by neighbors playing in their yards
how the sun lit one side of her face
the ugly side
through the cathedral arch in our
new American dream on Everglade Dr.
The hand I held on for dear life
in grocery stores and in crowds of strange
faces and legs, the hand
that smelled of cigarettes.
The real cool hand that caressed my face
before she kissed my forehead.
Me half asleep and my parents rescuing
me from some relative's house
after they went out dancing.
You have to know how to dance
to make it in this world.
I was limp in her arms
but I knew I was going home.

The day she left
my blue eyes were crying
but not in the rain
in the doorway of our dream.
Muddy shoes on linoleum
stairs rising behind in shag carpet
like the east crashing into the west.
She promised she'd come back she said
I'll be back.
And I asked, You Promise?
I promise.
She said she promised.
I had a hamster once
that had babies
and she chewed most of their heads off.

The door knob twisted
and she walked out into Saturday
morning
to be
somebody.

© 2008 Jason Juice Hardung/Colorado

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