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I sat fanning book pages, making Little Sally Mandy
hurry Chaplin-like, lost in the woods; then magically
brought out at story's end by sleight of hand.
My Viewmaster urged me into other woods,
3-D making me believe I could go deeper
than where the woodcutter took Hansel and his sister;
leave no trail of crumbs, build a gingerbread house,
eat it room by room.
Nights ran in a Crazy Man game, crouched in bushes
while the neighbor boy played at evil, bellowing
when he captured us, locked the tool shed door,
no mercy from his tickling.
Khrushchev beat his shoe, declared we will bury you.
I tried to dig a bomb shelter in baked red dirt,
unearthed a black spider mere inches down. Ran
through clean wet sheets, streaked them red
as Russians, bent my mother's clothespin bag
for no good reason, she said.
© by Patricia Killian Deaton.
Used with the author's permission.
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Patricia Killian Deaton lives in the historic foothills town of Valdese, North Carolina. She writes poetry, short stories, and some nonfiction, and has published in these genres in various journals. Most recently, Patricia received an award from the 2020 NC Poetry Society; her poem, "At Play," earned an honorable mention in the Carroll Bessent Hayman Poem of Love category. Patricia says walking alone, and time spent with her great-grandchildren, "does a body good!"
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karenpaulholmes:
yes, memories!
Posted 08/10/2015 07:20 PM
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Lori Levy:
I especially like the last stanza!
Posted 08/10/2015 11:17 AM
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