by Jean Valentine
South Dakota, August 1989. The buffaloes' deep red-brown
hinged shoulders and beards, their old hinged humps...
These are the old males, separated from the herd.
You can get a state license to shoot them.
"So who saved me? And for what purpose?"
The rich WASP suburb, 1946. The fight
about the Jews on Wall Street. My uncle said,
I thought that's what we fought the war about.
My uncle was right; everyone was drunk; my mother
was peeling shivers of Scotch tape off the counter, peeling off
her good hope. Or was it I who was losing my hope? in the
violent lightning white on the white lawn.
So why was I handed out of the burning window?
For joy Journalism. Stories.
Last updated March 18, 2023