Trypophobia

In ten years
children will ask
about the tiny holes
polka dotting storefronts
across America.
They’ll put their small
fingers into them
where screws and nails
were once bludgeoned
into wooden boards.
“What do these holes mean?”
They’ll ask,
and their parents will respond
“They’re a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“We’ll tell you someday.”
Then they’ll pester and whine
demanding to know why
there are holes on their favorite
toy stores and fast food places.
Why there are holes
everywhere they look.
Holes holes holes!
They’ll grow up
fearing them, and
some will even walk
around with liquid nail
guns filling them.
They’ll go on long tangents
with their friends in the woods
or on playgrounds
theorizing and making
childhood urban legends
out of them.

Parents will bite
their tongues bloody
fearing that if their kids knew
they’d repeat the same
behavior that was long abolished
and now lives on only
in the birthmarks of change
that refuse to fade.
They’d worry their children
would want to know more
about those split times,
and like any good parent
would spare them of that
pain.

The kids will grow
into adolescence.
Most of the holes will be
filled by then
and the fear of them
forgotten in the twinkle of infancy.
They’ll only notice them
occasionally when standing in
line at the movies or grabbing
a coffee with a girl.
One day, though,
In the nonchalance
Of a history book
they’ll learn
about the epidemic
that eclipsed the earth,
and how the sick sleeping
world was awakened by the
clamor of bigotry.
How a man was murdered
because the creator chose
a different crayon to color him
with,
how the howls of anguish
could no longer be stifled
and demons were set free
from their bird cages
corrupting and smutting
up the streets with their
heartache,
how the government
stormed neighborhoods
like the beaches of Normandy
and laid siege upon the outraged,
and how the insides of buildings
became darker than dusk
with no moonlight
because boards were beaten
into their windows
with nails
that when removed
left miniscule craters,
the water bucket of america
poked through with holes.

Hunter Hodkinson is interested in literary and self reflective prose and poetry, and often tries to reflect this in his own work. Currently he has no official publications but has been recognized by a few local community colleges. He is a transplant New Yorker, born and raised in Ohio.