My grandmother hid jewelry from Benito with the same hopes of a deluded American
child on the beach digging towards Asia. In that hole,
deeper than fear in her backyard, only worms could feel the gold and rubies. She said,
We can keep our pride from Mussolini and nothing else. Said,
He creates myth out of water, so when it changes he says with a look of chubby innocence,
It's not my fault. He blames the forces of nature
for inconsistencies. Good, evil and thirteen gray lines look the same to him at night, so
we don't bother with the divine anymore.
By plan or chance, this is how he will always be, like oil enamel on a slick canvas,
space and vision with dark, matty hair.
A churning life is never like a river, she said finally,
but only a stone that erodes over the years
Sandra M. A. Ogle
SANDRA M. A. OGLE graduated with a B.A. in English (minor in Italian) from the University of Texas at Austin. Her poems have appeared in Indiana University's Whitewater Review, Yellow Book, Blue Jean magazine, Purdue University's Skylark and various other publications. Graduate school is in her near future, although the location is not set in stone as of yet. Sandra is currently the editor of Kenwood Review, a poetry journal.