Holes in the Snow

t rasa

Sometimes in winter
when we came home bleeding
we'd leave blood trails
in the snow.

And in a few hours
the blood would turn black
and then in time
the black would sink down
leaving holes in the snow
and we would walk along
looking into the holes,
our boots packing the snow
into a long, narrow snow-ridge
with blood-holes in it.

Not like in summer
when the blood would just
turn to dust
and scuff away.

In winter we would
stare and stare
down into the holes
and there at the bottom
would be the dark blood.

And then spring would come
and the snow would melt
and grass would grow
and we would play tag
and hide-and-seek
and run all over the grass
and forget about
the blood-holes in the snow.

Memories of ‘45

t rasa

In an early morning
late December ice storm,
I peed in the doctor's face
to salute his welcome slap.

Windows glistened ice-blue fractals,
jagged razor shapes and shadows,
wind-whipped branches shattered.
Inside; warm blankets,
milk-damp breasts and comfort.

Heard the doctor tell my mom:
"He's healthy, but small
and doesn't seem to know much yet.
Maybe in time."
She smiled and looked at me.
"I only want to hear him laugh."

My father bent and whispered,
through din of screaming men,
death camps and fire-bombs:
"Cotton candy, Radio Flyers,
Daisy B-B Guns."

I gripped a gold and purple heart,
tried to suck
the glossy medal on his chest,
heard their nervous laugh.
They all agreed;
"He'll know more- in time."