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edward-vanhoosePoems
For years the square inner courtyard, surrounded by sky-reaching apartment complexes, accessible only through brief openings between the buildings whose windows looked down soullessly upon our child's play, contained my entire world, and I did not perceive any difference in the hands, faces, and seasonal limbs of my friends-- But when I returned the openings had closed, the courtyard inaccessible to an unrecognizable Cincinnati child whose white face and green eyes brought only memories-- 1884, 1929, 1944, 1967, and angry April showers that drowned disapproving windows in curfews of 2001. And I do understand. But, Would the windows open if they knew there's black in my line, way back in my line, from a time when ships like the Delta Queen-- sailed the Middle Passage monikered in false virtue granted by titles like Henrietta Marie-- brought African queens instead of slot machines-- when the fields of mud ran with blood hemorrhaged from Makhulu's innocence forcibly stolen by Grampa's lust. Now I must window watch my own daughter, recalling the lesson on the names of the week: You know daddy, someone just made those names up. And I can see beyond her blonde pig-tails-- the darkness of her eyes recalls the act of shame-- coupled with the sharp wit of a chained matriarch standing proudly on the auction block declaring: These waterways are all connected.
0
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
Cincinnati Child
For years the square inner courtyard, surrounded by sky-reaching apartment complexes, accessible only through brief openings between the buildings whose windows looked down soullessly upon our child's play, contained my entire world, and I did not perceive any difference in the hands, faces, and seasonal limbs of my friends-- But when I returned the openings had closed, the courtyard inaccessible to an unrecognizable Cincinnati child whose white face and green eyes brought only memories-- 1884, 1929, 1944, 1967, and angry April showers that drowned disapproving windows in curfews of 2001. And I do understand. But, Would the windows open if they knew there's black in my line, way back in my line, from a time when ships like the Delta Queen-- sailed the Middle Passage monikered in false virtue granted by titles like Henrietta Marie-- brought African queens instead of slot machines-- when the fields of mud ran with blood hemorrhaged from Makhulu's innocence forcibly stolen by Grampa's lust. Now I must window watch my own daughter, recalling the lesson on the names of the week: You know daddy, someone just made those names up. And I can see beyond her blonde pig-tails-- the darkness of her eyes recalls the act of shame-- coupled with the sharp wit of a chained matriarch standing proudly on the auction block declaring: These waterways are all connected.
Written by
edward-vanhoose
Dutch
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
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