A tattered fence ran

down the length of our backyard

at the first house I can remember

living in. Its pleats

were pliable, green and white

plastic like horizontal blinds on house windows

in the better parts of town. Our duplex

had curtains. Heavy cream

fabric stretched across windows

kept the prying sunlight out, hid

my mother darning socks

during the evening news. Carter was busy

bartering oil for lives. We watched hostages blindfolded

on our nine inch black and white, hands atop their heads,

paraded into daylight by dark-haired men

we learned to hate, the sound of guns

as another President was shot. Outside

I peered through slits in the fence,

fit my fingers in their creases and pretended

I too needed rescuing.

Adrienne Dyane Lewis is Co-Editor of the Paradidomi Review, a

new forum for Mid-Michigan creative writers. Her work has appeared

in Fusion, Controlled Burn, and the White Pine Review. A

professional grant writer, she lives in Saginaw with her husband

and son. Her first chapbook is forthcoming from Mayapple Press.