Saturday, May 28, 2011

Angry Poem

I close my eyes and go to a sunny field
We are all there.
We are having a picnic after church on a Sunday
The children are dressed in white and yellow
Little girls in yellow dresses and little boys in white dress shirts
And they are laughing and running.
I recognize them,
They are our children.

The men are standing a short distance away
In a naturally formed circle
Talking with hands sunk into their trouser pockets
Every once in a while one of the men will shout
Something instructive to one of the especially energetic
Little girls, with black plated and beaded hair,
wearing a yellow dress.

And we are sitting in the shade,
Lost so very deep in conversation,
Something expressive and close to the heart,
And I throw a light kanga over my dark legs that are beginning to
Sting ever so slightly from falling rays of sun that escape
Through spaces between the tree branches.

And a breathless boy in a white dress shirt
Falls into my arms every now and then
Taking a break from chasing or being chased.
“Mama!” He interrupts our conversation catching his breath,
“Water, I need water!” We exchange glances and smile.
“Please?” I remind him placing a cup in his grasp.
“Please!” He barely repeats before taking a few heavy swallows,
And in a wild rush places the cup down, scrambles to his feet,
And springs back to the serious endeavour of chasing,
And of being chased.

I open my eyes, in a dark room, with a screen lighting my face, trying not to
write an angry poem.

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