Smoke Screen

The lights were almost out on the day everything changed.

Usually, the street was aglow with street lamps and porch lights.

Something is not quite right here.

Is here still a place that I know?

Dad is rocking in his rocking chair when I turn left.

He never goes outside anymore, why now?

Fears that “they’re watching.”

Thinks that “they’re coming.”

Everything is different.

Some things stay the same.

Mom is in the kitchen.

Smoke comes from the doorway, how?

She can cook well, but she burnt it.

It was pork but we’re Jewish.

Are we still the same?

Did “they” finally take us?

When I blink my eyes fast, something happens.

The smoke fills the air and I see myself in the gray.

I see who we once were, but time passes the same.

The image of myself isn’t aware of who I am now.

They took my power, took my spirit.

They split the world in two.

My family here, my family there, we coexist.

We are different yet the same.