Wichita Falls--poem(revised)

That April evening

I remember the murmur of the radio

And of my mother’s voice

Slipping in through the crack

Between the door and wall and

One thin arrow of light

That spread to a weak wedge of dimness.

I turned over

Breathing the dusty smell of old feather bed

sunk into the mattress,

comforting and stale.

The sound of thunder muffled in that ancient down

As I slid into uneasy sleep.

The shriek of the siren woke me

And the sound of hurried preparations.

I half fell from the bed

As my mother put my shoes on

Like I was 2 instead of almost 10.

Her hands were trembling.

We went to ground

That ancient instinct of man and hare.

They pulled down the metal door and latched it

With two strong bolts against the wind.

The mumbling of prayers

The creaking of trees

The waiting.

That sound--

Was it a freight train?

Or the blood pounding inside my ears?

And when the siren signaled all clear

I was so glad,

I wanted to throw up.

It passed over us

Though it struck--

Old Testament style--

And tore their lives apart.

Did I also hear

the wailing of mothers?

The quiet of still firstborns?

What blood

Was above that cellar door?

And what dark angel

Did we escape?

Janna O’Donnell

Copyright 2007