On The Edge

The kettle whistled every morning

right before the rooster's crow

and fresh bottled milk perched itself upon the third step

of the front porch, cream rising to the top

and my mother wrestled with the bread dough

beating it down, kneading it not so gently

And quickly the sun would crack

the horizon where it had rested

somewhere beyond the fields

far beyond the growing green hay

where I nestled with the dogs

and avoided chores and adulthood

Father had answered the call

the posters in red white and blue

pointing at him, "wanting you" and beckoning

and the radio crackled every night

its news, my mother's only conversation, consolation

she sat upright, her self perched

Edward R Murrow gave hour-by-hour reports

London under the Blitz and This is London

and Trafalgar Square lit with search lights

and raid sirens accompanied him

but on Saturdays it was the Grand Ole Opry

and she would let me sit with her and she would

sing, her arms over my chest as I sat

on the floor in front of her chair, she perched forward

on the edge of her seat, leaning towards the radio

when the army came to visit Ms Rita

this man in green, medals gleaming

Miss Rita, next door, turned off her radio

and sent Johnny to fetch my mother

and after, Johnny and I played army in the field

Marching all day, then Johnny went marching home again

And from the dark hallway, the amber doorframe

cold against my cheek

I watched that night, my mother cry with coffee

And she gripped a pillow, kneading it not so gently

listening, rocking back and forth

her cheeks gleaming in the night glow of the radio