Vukovar

Croatian girl. With one eye. And born a virtual spastic. Wears a dunce cap of sorts. And has been touched. Inappropriately. By both angels who live in the sky. And the accordion player’s grubby uncle. Her unremembered birthdays. Had candles. That never got lit.

She grew up. Slowly. An acutely diffident woman. With a broad aggregate of scars. Crippled by palsy. And bereft of the rudimentary social skills. That one requires.

The dirty war came. And Serbian soldiers hurt her. Beat her. Maimed her. Hung her from the rafters of a shit filled cow shed. And she was forever grateful.