Saturday, February 24, 2007

WHEN THE GRASSY KNOLL HAD NO NAME

by Ken Victor


Forty years later another film
is found, Camelot in sunlight
driving past us. We who watch
are old now, our idealisms
burnished with a patina
of sadness. Then the disquisitions
of conspiracy theorists were
still unformed, as unnecessary
as a nuclear exchange. Today
CNN plays it over and over
as if believing the nation, scared,
at war, is still in denial. Red rover
red rover, won’t you please send
Jackie back over. Dismissed early,
our 5th grade class quietly
walked home to married mothers
darning socks alone by the dull
light of the black and white TV.
The film caught the beautiful
before—can’t we just indulge
ourselves and linger there: blue sky,
beauty in the motorcade, a nation
ready to flower into its full
promise, to bloom into anything
it dreamed of becoming, iris and
orchid and a texas rose.


Ken Victor, an American living in Canada for the past fifteen years, has published in various journals including The Malahat Review, The Texas Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal and The Queens Quarterly. He recieved his M.A. in Creative Writing from Syracuse University.