Epidemic
I know little about who I'm from.
My old man, he was born
an hour or so south of Memphis.
His mother died six days later
from the Puerperal
Fever.
I've been told she was
half-Choctaw
and from what I've read
was “taken with pains
in the head, soon followed by
great
anxiety, sleeplessness, and a general
disinclination toward
suckling.”
His old man was a barber who
met
a new woman and moved
them far west of the
river.
When the war came he signed up
and shipped off to Europe. Somewhere
along the way he lost a
leg.
Maybe a German shot him in
France.
John Riley
John Riley works in educational publishing. His poetry and fiction have appeared in Connotation Press, Smokelong Quarterly, Blue Five Notebook, Willows Wept Review, The Dead Mule, and many other journals both online and in print.
Tags:
Poetry