Grandmother, there are strange fruit hanging from the willow tree.

Photo by Amy Treasure on Unsplash

On a crooked arm

I hang on, swinging with the joys of my childhood

No strangers in this town

Just long lost friends hanging around.

Until the change came

Grandmother, there are strange fruits hanging from the willow tree

For a moment, they resemble you and me

Hushed voices

Low and angry

It must have been my fault

Seeing a different kind of fruit amazed me

How they hung about

Letting the wind sway them back and forth

Back and forth

Back and forth

Back and forth

Nothing

Tears streaming

I see a face I know in these strange fruits

An uncle only met once in the quiet of the night

Loud voices

Angry, hatred spewing

Then nothing

Now it’s my turn