Ricochet
Back then, kicked around in copper tooled cowboy boots.
Rocking and rolling to free love. Not chasing motherhood, but liberation.
Twisted steel. Invincible. Army played to my atti-TUDE.
Like boys, girls could score…
equal pay, experience, exploits.
Didn’t consider — that child.
Jumped into formation. My black spit-shined combat boots toe-to-toe
with GI joe cools and dogfaces. Some decent. A few dirtbags.
Cold War. DMZs. 9/11. Global Terror.
My dogs barked across dirt in five countries.
Zero pregnancy waivers courtesy of “the pill” and
the free will to let my baby live… or not.
After decades, unlaced my desert tan duty boots. Thanked for my service.
Worn thin. Bone tired. Noticed gals about the age of that child.
Would I have the strength to stand aside
as that child strived, tumbled, and soared?
Would my pride accept that child’s free love over my grandbabies?
That’s how I treated my mother.
Would that child want nothing to do with me
like I wanted nothing to do with her thirty years ago?
Occasionally that child pokes her mug into my awareness.
“Looky here,” she giggles.
Nowadays, plain beige muck boots lined with mercy
carry me on the way home.
B. A. Liechti: Riding bareback into the wind.
