I stood on the rickety porch,
in a soiled muslin dress,
finicky and unable to stop shaking.
Trooper Johnson handcuffed Junior,
pushed him into the police car.
They hauled Mason jars
of clear liquid from our pantry,
stacked them into a truck.
Moments stood still
like a silent movie placed on hold.
Junior's face showed telltale signs of guilt,
Flies clung to the screen door
like maggots clinched to a rotting carcass.
I slung open the door,
screaming, "Nothing's in those jars,
bring them back here you creeps,
Junior trades them for our food."
Hurt and ashamed,
I ran and hid in a wooden box
behind the kitchen stove
covering my body with a coverlet,
hoping to seal the pain of my open wound.