A Poem by O.G. Rose
At eight, my memory was seared by ice cubes.
Plastic bags balanced upon raw ligaments,
and yellow water filled an intrusive tube.
The bald doctor promised that healing only cost
a motionless month, while my Angels jersey soaked
in my smell, a token of Dad’s hopes. Itches nibbled
like vultures, inch by inch
by hour.
April was cloudless — Fool’s Day, Easter —
dry — beauty abounded
as I struggled with air,
its touch and reminder of farm breezes.
I didn’t ask the nurses to twist the tilt wand,
those everyone-receivers who oversaw chemotherapy
and daily dialysis. All I needed
was stillness.
I asked the care-free doctor if I could move my eyes,
and he asked me to shut my mouth.
Desperate for minute-between-hours
gratification, I rebelled against authority, alone,
and crossed my pupils to witness
my nose-tip, then strained my eyes to see
my chest — Foucault’s society, politics — you —
legal alien.
The nurse strolled in, chewing lunch, and after
I signaled with my still lips that
she should not tell lies that she couldn’t
believe, I blinked a request for headache medicine
to treat the thought that when we became ourselves,
we felt paralyzed, not unleashed,
an idea great enough to wash away
every major city.
II
In a three-hundred-dollar stroller,
I push my boy and girl down
a paved hill — lime and secretive woods bordering the road — toward
a humble community. April was disliked by clouds,
and we needed this morning’s downpour to revive our garden’s filthy
and soft lungs. Our home was left by a soldier who fought
violently those who sought rule by power
and imprisonment.
College educated, I rest and let a close stream
share its mysteries. Water teaches
truth when reflections are missing,
when it is worthy of a gaze,
of being stored within alongside
whatever it is that doesn’t change
— me — as water is always
a thing that can move.
I pull out a pen and jot down a note
in my pocket notebook: fiction
is a beauty that originally
never happens beyond that single individual,
a practice of being inspired by sum-thing
that if too awe-full, would cause despair,
unless that is we accepted that we didn’t capture,
but created,
something like something.
I smile, withdraw my writing tool,
and resume the walk with my human-creations,
fighting the memories of those who believed
I wasted my potential
in not becoming a lawyer in New York,
that the choice to write was the choice
to stay in place.
Be warned —
professional art required hard work — I was always reminded.
When I suffered-out a chapter, I was asked why
I invested so much in what didn’t pay off or give back, a left-over
tossed on bedsheets after late-night glances, a testament to effort
which held a meaning that moved its eyes to see alien words
and blinked signals to elsewhere-looking readers requesting
patience.
III
My children scream between the dogwoods
that they want to be unleashed. I throw my line-book
into the bottom stroller-pouch, unstrap their buckles,
and let them run down blue pavement
toward our neighboring community. Small steps
add up quicker than they ever seem they will, and soon
the prison they escaped — me — runs.
Altima. Metal frame.
There is grass for the kids, safety —
nearby. The driver swerves right
and waves goodbye.
As napping would have assured, the kids are at peace,
sitting and designing whistles with green blades, not left behind
by my present moment, the boundaries
of where I can search
and look around.
I strap the boy and girl back into the stroller
and consider returning up the hill
to where my family’s hard work paid
off. Poppa worked construction and kept his mind
on his own business. The risk was never guaranteed,
and there was always the chance of our family’s story
being untold, for the only stories people hear
are the stories worth hearing.
A one floor house became two,
a three-door garage was added, and fifty years gave
way to corn fields and fireflies, things worthy
of taking pride in — of never wanting to leave —
things others praised others for possessing,
gifts to future generations and their futures,
unlike the substance of literary fiction hoped for
and not seen.
IV
We walk around the paved curve into the community
far below our house. Leafless limbs cover roofs
and memory-inspiring debris lines yards hard rain reduced
to mud. Neighbors pile remains of living
rooms onto the backs of lawnmower trailers.
The shingles are flung and dead seeds between bricks.
Grown men try to push a Chevy
out of a ditch.
The lowered river running behind the homes
sings to happy robins in the branches,
and toddlers entertain hide and seek
as their fathers haul in rented dehumidifiers.
Mothers smoke over porch remains
as if their cutlery and stoves belong to strangers.
Everyone works very hard; it looks like
no progress
is made.
I witness them.
I cannot escape being someone
from the hill-top with a garden hydrated as needed:
the squash, corn, broccoli, lettuce, cucumbers,
kale, beats, tomatoes, pumpkins, and watermelons
will overflow. I am
someone who writes — naked — and risks
what’s safe inside, someone inspired
by a temporary inability to rise up
to view others as equals or needy.
I turn the stroller around and push the children,
who my writer friends said I’d be happier not having,
back. A chainsaw revs
and men shout for neighbors to hurry, their voices
fading toward the stiller water. I think; therefore,
I’m stuck — a uni-verse
I can contemplate forever.
I know suffering, I know that inability
to move.
.
.
.
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