from One With Others Poem by Carolyn D. Wright

from One With Others



People study the dingy chenille clouds for a sign.



People did what they have done.



A town, a time, and a woman who lived there.



And left undone what they ought not to have did.



+++



I take one more drive across town thinking about the retired welding teacher easing over that rise seeing the parking lot full of white men. I wonder if he thought he would die in the jungle [where no Vietcong ever called him [N-word] ] or he would die in front of the bowling alley [without ever having been inside] or die in the swimming pool [without ever having been in it, except when drained, and the police had him in their sights]. Or if, because he was a young man, he would never die. I attach V to my driving-around thoughts.



An object unworthy of love she thought she was.



It was a cri de coeur.



Those of our get had given her a nom de guerre: V.



A simple act, to join a march against fear

down an old military road.



We were watching an old movie the night



the table started walking toward us



and there was trouble on Division.



She became a disaffiliated member [of her race].



I'm one of them now, she said, upon release



from jail. I am an invader.







Look into the dark heart and you will see what the dark eats other than your heart.



The world is not ineluctably finished



though the watchfires have been doused



more walls have come down



more walls are being built



Sound of the future, uncanny how close



to the sound of the old



At Daddy's Eyes



"Pusherman" still on the jukebox



Everybody's past redacted



+++



For me



it has always been a series of doors:



if one is opened precipitously a figure is caught bolting from bed



if another, a small table, a list of demands on school paper



if another, a child on the linoleum, saying she wants a white doll



a woman sitting on a bed, holding a folded flag



a shelf of trophies behind her head



an ironing board, bottle of bourbon on the end



sewing machine on a porch



To walk down the road without fear



To sit in a booth and order a sweet soft drink



To work at the front desk



To be referred to as Gentleman



To swim in the pool



To sit in the front row and watch Run Wild, Run Free [next week: Death of a Gunfighter]



To make your way to the end of the day with both eyes in your head



Nothing is not integral



You want to illumine what you see



Fear reflected off an upturned face



Those walnuts turning black in the grass



It is a relatively stable world



Gentle Reader



But beyond that door



It defies description

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Carolyn D. Wright

Carolyn D. Wright

Mountain Home, Arkansas
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