A Civil War

L. Lynn Young

He didn't lose his hair during the battle
(a too-long-in-the-back
Donald Trump-combover triumph that pleased his doctor to no end)
but his mustache turned weather-beater red
Like an Irishman's

Nice man, the doctor
palmed the top of my head as I sat by Dad's bedside
and said, Ahhh, your duddy is doing good! Yes? I tink so!
His lies sounded musical and true
He didn't wear a turban, but, thanks to the Sixties,
I imagined him in one--a great big beehive
studded with rubies

Before the war, my father shamed me with whiteness
Read me Little Black Sambo
Taught our dogs to growl at "them"
at young lovers walking through the park
at the new neighbors who lived down the block
Ate downstairs instead of at the table
when Mary came to dinner

And there he was
shaming me all over again
with his newfound Irishness and religion
holding tight to the doctor's human, brown hand
eyes dewy with gratitude - maybe even worship
as he slipped
and slipped, shrinking and
becoming whiter, paler, transparent
while his savior gazed down upon him, through him
and showed him to the Promised Land

--LLY
Copyright (c) 2000, by L. Lynn Young

For the past ten years, L. Lynn Young has devoted most of her time to caring for her family, running a small home-based daycare, and writing. She has recently decided that the time is right to let her babies go free (literarily, of course) and is actively pursuing a writing career. These poems are her first publication.