Old Wives’ Tales

by Marcie Mallory

He’ll beckon you close, finger half-cocked like him, and you’ll come because there is no rush that beats the ass end of a gun.

ARC Art New Media

Lips better suited to kiss a bottle of Jack than the mouth of Jill, and you, a woman with long soft lashes holding a child, no longer mean an explosion of heat from love, but hate, and he hears a voice moaning his name, not in passion, but pain.

But the world can’t see behind those hard eyes and Copenhagen smile to the child left behind.

They told him he must fight for his country, and when he is done they’ll throw him away like the old parachutes tangled in the trees, after flying too close to the sun.

And they used to sing to him “Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die,” but there was no medal given for someone going alone in the middle of the night, ‘TIL VALHALLA’ carved into his chest, and his rifle at his side.

Tangled up in Consumerism -- ink 18" X 24"

Allison Wheaton