Deborah Matusko
Short, toasted brown hair
frames a face
devoid of malice.
Voice like warm milk
beckons me to come near.
Enticing me with promises
of cookies, her gentleness propels
my seven-year-old fingers to
grasp the door handle.
Tranquility explodes.
My mother screams
get away from that car.
Confused, I freeze,
turn and run home.
Tires screech in anger.
***
Deborah Matusko has published her poetry in Freshwater, Fresh Ink, and The Awakenings Review. A writer of dark poetry, she appreciates the opportunity to share her poems with others who know the value of works that speak to topics not often seen in literary journals.