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.