Member Poem

To my sister Jennifer
 
I was walking across the snow-covered parking lot
to the pizza place, and I was thinking of you—
up there in Vancouver, also surrounded by snow.
 
A tree held the parking lot together, broke up
the field of white, held me fast in my watching,
though I knew it wouldn’t move or start talking.
 
The branches were an X-ray, incandescent white, darkness
seeping through them, the whole tree given over to the prognosis
of winter. We used to look at baobabs that way, though
 
our childhood never saw snow, did see plenty of backlit
pictures—our bodies paraded through by light, our hands
happily holding each other on our way to school.
 
We’d fantasize about the magic in everything, even now,
the tree rising from the parking lot to disturb me
in the way of memory. The birds pointed at by old ladies,
 
the birds falling from the sky. Blood on our faces, smudged
with our housekeeper’s fingers—Shhhhh, your parents must not know.
When they did find the amulets she’d bought for us
 
(with stolen money), when they found the bus ticket
to the witch doctor’s part of town, it was supposed to be all over.
We were children of God, we did not sprinkle chicken blood.
 
So she was sent away. Her gift to us lingers still—the trees
hold out their wooden fingers dipped in blood.
Close your eyes, umfana wetu, the core of fantasy.
 
///
 
I want to strip away the unimportant things—the chameleons,
the national anthem playing before afternoon cartoons, xoxo: the word
for frog. What am I left with? What besides these things
 
other than what the amulets, the blood, the muti, to guard us?
You found the girl’s skinned body with mom. You told me
the dogs were licking her ear. Everything was always real.
 
It wasn’t until my body was raped by the two older boys
over the course of a night, that I knew something was wrong.
I couldn’t tell you for weeks. God didn’t stop them. The amulets made
 
of blood, our blood, were useless. What was life if nothing was safe?
Beauty? Can I call it beauty? The year we moved to Memphis, it snowed,
and we looked out the window and thought it was beautiful.
 
We ran outside, arms, legs bared, our laughing faces. The poplar trees
dropped snow on us in awkward plops. We played until our skin burned
with cold. Now, we’re a thousand miles apart. I know you might call
 
later this week, and I hope you do, so I can tell you about the tree
and how it looked like trees look in my dreams, and I’ll wait,
for you to reach into our past, when our hands were holding one another.

Previously published in print: Rock & Sling, 8.1

Jonathan May grew up in Zimbabwe as the child of missionaries. He currently lives in Memphis, TN. Read more at http://memphisjon.wordpress.com