Mr. Africa Poetry Lounge!
Lines between Seekonk and Fairhaven
I wasn't raised by no
river, not the sea and the
milk I said I should get was
only an excuse to be
out in the day, to find the
water and not to wait the
ringin phone, the key turnin
in its own self's lock.
The river,
of course, couldn't get it,
movin smooth and steely black
tween concrete banks. I left, headed
for the sea. The road ... highway ...
stretch. No end before; no end
behind. This close as I will
ever get to runnin way,
pullin up stakes, to gone. What
ahead of me is behind
me. Not the sea, the river -
I can get water out the
tap. I say it in sleep (that
the only way it can get
said. To admit, then, to the
broke vision, to lose mine me
I.
To surrender to what
probably just one mo chick
shit dream: OurUs We.
And this
the closest I ever will
get to runnin. This car on
some highway, halfway tween there
and there. I wait the ringin
phone, the key turnin in its
own self's lock. Jesse comin
home.
Written by Sherley Anne Williams (1944-1999)
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