By Jozlyn Basso

There are landmines in our backyard,
and I carefully jump around
them while Dad takes apart
his Smith & Wesson and drenches
the porch with molten black oil.
The sticky stains coat a ringing shadow
of Mom’s fallen
windchimes, their bells tolling
in the voice of God,
and Dad can’t tell if they’re damning him or not.
Today, the sun shines hotter
than it did in Iraq,
and Dad warns me to get back in the house
before my skin is burned.
Through the tan curtains, I see
Dad cup his head in his hands.
From far away, his knuckles look less calloused
and sometimes I imagine them, all soft
and rosy, before they learned
to slide delicately
between trigger and soul.


-In memory of SPC Timothy Gresham, walk tall young man.

Biographical Statement: Hello! My name is Jozlyn Basso, and I am a sophomore at VCU. A teacher introduced me to poetry in elementary school, and since then, I have been compelled to write. Poetry has been a dominant force in my life, and I hate it almost as much as I am infatuated with it. Beyond writing, I find great joy in relaxing in nature and being surrounded by family and friends.