In Praise of Innocence

/, Blesok no. 65/In Praise of Innocence

In Praise of Innocence

In Praise of Innocence
Family Matters
Beef
Wartime
Lightning
Vision
The Object Taken
Sent Packing

He lived in a rough neighbourhood.
He shouted: ‘Go away!’ His head high
above me. His rib cage resting on the worn
windowsill of his second floor tenement.

Eighteen I was. My glowing face
a field of spots. My too warm ears
the prison from which my grandmother’s
last gasps refused to escape. So I

yelled back: ‘Your sister’s dead… ‘
The granduncle I had never met before
(for reasons unclear, a quarrel long
forgotten), insisted: ‘Go away!’

And I, neck bent backward, repeated:
‘Your sister’s dead… ‘ Once upstairs
he said, ‘I thought you were a Norwegian
sailor.’ Adding in imitation pidgin:

‘No, no. No drinkies here.’
‘Your sister’s dead.’ He pointed at
a somewhat uneven arch through which
two rooms formerly separated,

were now connected. Then showed
me a brick. ‘I built it myself. They said
it was a load-bearing wall, that it would
never work. That it would come down!

Did I prove them wrong.’

AuthorHenk van Kerkwijk
2018-08-21T17:22:59+00:00 April 29th, 2009|Categories: Poetry, Blesok no. 65|0 Comments