They tried to protect us from the TV
as it vomited unspeakable news
straight from Cronkite, night after night

Age six, I snuck looks at the evening news
a few times, a ticker at the bottom of the screen
announcing the death of solider after soldier.
The ashes fell like rain.

Much later, I learned about the red death
the world had witnessed, brought to us
in black and white every night. Mom cried. It was 1968.

Now, 60 years gone, I stand at the top
of Crabtree Falls, a hike Mom loved
when she was able. I hold her urn in my hands.

A big black noise crowds around me, throbbing,
and it blocks out the sun. I feel like I’m so far gone
I’ll never get back home.

I check the ashes in the urn, then heave the
whole thing into the big nothing. Another
ticker is going to start soon, I can feel it.
We just can’t help ourselves

Debbie Collins lives and writes in Richmond, Va. She has been published in many online and print journals including Panoplyzine, antinarrative, and Flatbush Review, among others. She’s written two chapbooks, He Says I’m Fierce (Finishing Line Press), and Calving Season (Bottlecap Press). Recently nominated for a Best of the Net, Debbie also spent time as a poetry editor for Zoetic Press.