|Arsenic Lobster poetry journal||
I was seven. We would walk on Sundays, when we could not drive the car. The Years of Lead. The air
was thick, the gas expensive. Hard times, you mumbled, but I knew it was not as bad as the times of
Dickens. I read a lot way back then. You encouraged me to. A girl who reads will be a woman who thinks.
This world needs philosophers, not terrorists! The gray coats kept us warm. My mittens shivered playing with
the icicles from the street fountains. I can still hear the sound of our feet on the cobbled stones. At the
newsstand, piles of newspapers stood soaked in blood. And you, father, shook your head, holding
paper staining your hands lead-black. As we walked to the pastry shop, you would say These times are
sour. Almost forty years have gone and I wake up to new terror. I studied philosophy to learn that men
will never learn, father. New flamethrowers are dissecting our souls.
About Alessandra Bava