My grandmother hid
jewelry from Benito
with the deluded hopes
of an American child
on the beach digging
to China. A hole

deeper than loyalty
in her backyard,
worms could feel the gold and rubies.
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.
Blames the forces of nature

for inconsistencies.
Good, evil and thirteen gray lines
look the same at night,
and 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,
but only a stone that erodes over the years,
underground.

Sandra M.A. Ogle was born in Bermuda and raised in Florida, Italy and Texas. She is the co-founder of the poetry journal Kenwood Review and currently resides in Austin, Texas. Sandra’s poems have previously been published in Indiana University’s Whitewater Review, YellowBook, Blue Jean magazine, Thumbprints, and Purdue University’s Skylark.