Vietnam Era
Baby, baby, wash your hair in gravy!
Dry it out with bubble gum and send it to the navy.
We cling to the safety of a thick tree trunk, the three of us, four years old apiece, peering between the branches in satisfaction as our three-year-old victim cries in confusion. She isn’t even sure what we’re talking about—because, of course, what we’re talking about makes no sense—but she can tell we mean her harm. We mean her harm because she’s young and weak and we want to believe that we’re not. Because there are three of us and one of her. Because we have a sturdy tree to hide behind and she doesn’t. We are filled with blinding certainty and superiority until like lightning our tiny, white-haired, ferocious nursery-school teacher descends upon us, the wrath of God coming to punish us for our sins. “Go sit on the porch for the rest of recess!” she shouts. “How dare you make fun of someone like that, someone smaller than you! You should all be ashamed!” And just like that, we all are.
mute button
the last generation’s war
rages on the screen
________________________________________________
first published in Haibun Today 5:1, March 2011
Red Dragonfly 
Love it again! I’ve read this at ‘haibun today’.
Love it for these: The pace is perfect and the words unroll like marbles from dark pockets–the hidden darkness children aren’t aware they’re born with. And your haibun projects it on a universal screen.
Oh…what an eloquent compliment, it’s poetry in itself. 🙂 I’m glad you enjoyed this. It’s one of my earliest, most profound memories.