Predator Poem by Cynthia Buhain-baello

A scar that has healed on my finger
Reminds me of it everyday
The incident as vividly I remember
Tattooed in memory, you could say.

I was seventeen and my brother, older
Six children cramped in that place,
A six -door apartment that cannot be wider
The ceiling was cracked, the paint lost its glaze.

We were not beggar poor but neither rich
So the absence of luxuries were a fact-
We spent warm afternoons on the yard in which
We never craved for whatever we lacked.

One lazy afternoon, at almost sunset
We had come into the house for dinner,
But my eldest brother remained there to let
The late hours of day somehow linger.

Then came this tall and boisterous man
Who demanded some ice for his drinks,
My brother explained that we had none-
I felt there was trouble, by instinct.

He shouted expletives as my brother came in
In fear, we shut the door behind him.
As my brother said 'Duck! He's got a gun!
We turned off the lights, the whole house was dim.

The man broke some windows and fired some shots
Gave vent to his anger out there on the street
As we ran out the backdoor into a vacant lot
Cut my hand with some glass and wounded my feet.

We went to the neighbors and we said 'Help us please! '
Our lives are in danger from a man with a gun
Can they kindly call up the authorities?
Then they told us, the drunk- 'He's a policeman.'


Cynthia Buhain-Baello~~~02.17.2008



(This is a true story and that makes it more disturbing.)