Escargot

Mustard school bus, we unload

Sixth grade Americans in ties and dresses

Feasting on a French Cuisine

The room was gardened

Peacocks roamed, a river flowed

Rabbits ran, but we did not

Prior instructions denied us so

“Have respect,” we were told

The only directions we had

Ever followed so closely

So many manners,

Innumerable rules

We dared each other

To try the snail

Laid out on a porcelain plate

Crisp baguette and buttered shell

Common critter and glorified name

We took the clamp to grasp

This slippery shell

Holding tight, fork in hand

Pried it out with no delicacy

For a moment we held

Them in suspense

A peacock cried

Cautiously I took a bite

And sinking teeth

into garlic butter

and squishy texture

The ones that tasted liked it a lot

But I could not help but think

Of them in my garden

Back at home, my orange brick house

Late spring down pours would coax out snails

They’d crawl, leave trails, infest the walkway

Happy sliding, stocky eyes, under new green leaf and grayer sky

Call me uncultured, I fail to see

How this common creature

We’d throw in the streets

Could be worth of this French cuisine

What makes it so special?

The way it’s cooked or nationality

I could do the same without the shell

They roam in tribes under leaf and over rock

Would the same affect occur if I cooked

Ugly common spiders?

I’d use basil and thyme

Olive oil and decorative plate

Name it “Araign”

serve it, legs curled in a star

I was good I’ll admit

But why is it so special?

I do know now, I’ll never get over

The image of a buttered snail

Creeping through my

Rain soaked yard

A Winter's War

I ask myself again for the thousandth time that day, was it worth it?

Lying on my back in the snow and an arrow protruding from the right side of my chest, I felt my blood seeping through my gray, worn jacket and wetting the snow. I can’t believe now that I had ever thought it would be an honor to wear the King’s colors and march out in tyranny of other countries, to gain dominion, they said, for power and glory, they said.

Lying like that in the snow I couldn’t believe I was awake. Or I was for now. Now that I think about it I was completely oblivious to my fellow soldiers falling around me by arrows from the castle tiers above. Conquer the castle and we conquer the country, they said. Conquer that, and we can finally go home. That’s what I had thought too.

The pain in my chest had ebbed to a dull ache and I knew I wasn’t going to make it. Then I remembered my brother, Darien, and wondered how he was fairing. He had entered the castle with the first charge at mornings light and I had not seen him since. My battalion followed but we were attacked by archers in the five shadow gray rock of the castle. That was it, the last time he would ever hear me say to him was out of jest, “Don’t trip over yourself on the way in.”

My vision grew bleary and I struggled to think straight. I can’t even remember if he had laughed or not. The war was all but won and I would not be around to experience it. Better me than him, he had a wife and a blonde, chubby, bright eyed, baby year old son. They’d named him after me, Matthias, they simply called him Matty. He brought a lot of joy to his parents, I just wish I could be there to see him grow up, my little nephew.

The next I knew I was shaken awake by what I thought was a nurse or someone surveying the dead of the battle grounds. Hardly, I didn’t have the strength to stop him as the group of 12 nearby village boys robbed every one of us of our hats, coats, and boots, and whatever else they could find. I think I cursed at them but I was out again.

When I came to I was lying on a cot in a tent hospital surrounded by the other wounded. Skipping over the part where I nearly killed myself trying to sit up, I asked the nurse about my brother. She had a blonde hair, (common in our country) it was a mess and her white apron was not as new as it had been before the carnage. She bit her lip looking down, and I knew. That’s all I needed to understand. I was brotherless, my sister-in-law was a widow, and my nephew was fatherless.

The water surrounding camp was polluted so we conserved water and boiled snow when we had time. I hadn’t had any to do since yesterday, yet somehow, I still found tears to cry.

The Crushed Carnation

What I've Lost

I guess that's why they call it "a crush."By the end, there's nothing really left.

Love is like fire, there's no delicate or safe way to play with it.

I ask for no sympathy, for all the pain I've felt, was self inflicted. Though I didn't know that till years after.

But by then it was too late, I was burned. I'd scarred myself trying to cross an imaginary wall that I didn't know which side I wanted to be on.

That wasn't my only mistake. I'd give all I have to get that time back. To see that world how I did before.

I still believe in fairy tales, that's probably where I went wrong.

"Faith," they say. "Try again."

But where? With who?

How can I possibly defend from worse burns that could cause permanent damage?

 So I build myself inside a flimsy card box to protect myself from the inevitable.

Or is it?

Can I truly expect to stay packaged inside while I wait this out? To avoid enticing play of fire?

Not likely. They flames are bound to come and lick up my silly little box of protection. Carry it along with the wind of my aspirations and drop the ashes of my disappointment.

How can such silly crush hurt so much?

The pain they caused wasn't direct or ever intentional. They didn't even let on to it.

So I guess they knew.

But even still. I put my own hand in the fire expecting him to do the same.

Or did I expect him to care and help me bandage my wounds? Would covering it change anything?

Could he really have healed it? Can I? Or have I?

Why do I even keep the memory?

The fire. A dazzling iridescent fan.

I try not to exaggerate. (More or less.)

But I have a firm belief that the cliche was written to resonate with the heart. That if bent in the right way can be sent as a written beautiful message.

Of hope.

Of warning.

But maybe I'll never know. Maybe someone will find that piece of me in the ashes where I forgot to look and bring it back to me. Maybe I'll be that strong independent. Maybe it'll all remain the same.

I just hope I'm the one to make the choice.