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Poem

At night
a shot or two 
rings out.
Vartan turns over
and looks at his wife
safely on the side of the bed 
away from the window.
He senses
the difference between
sounds of alcohol fueled rounds,
and those from long ago, booted
hate filled men.

Sunland-Tujunga.
The late night discharges
of aimless despair.

Most early Saturdays, 
he leans on the same white wall, 
black grilled windows, no signs, 
no numbers.
The corner of his street and
Foothill Boulevard.
He and his friend, Marhar, 
smoke in the morning sun.
They are disturbed only by
an occasional car with an emboldened exhaust.

They know from passed down stories
the deep chill of Zeitoun,
the snow,
the shooting,
the running.
The hiding in caves.
The red lines in the snow.
They know in their veins
who they are,
even against this warm,
white, unblemished, smooth wall.

They are all the lost brothers.
Boys.

They shiver.
They weren’t there.
It was too long ago.
They were there.

Instead, one tells a story
of last night’s
Knuckle-Bones game
and what they won
or lost.

It is a better
to laugh,
shake the head.

Not bury one 
on top of the other.

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