The Landscape

By Susie Kimathi

I wish we were like the ones behind the sunrise row
Not in love with murder and mayhem worshiping

catastrophe, hands tied in our own lassitude, Mama
does laundry all day long, the desperate whooshing sounds

of our washing machine trying to break barriers, Mama
believes in soap, Mama's ashamed of our stains.  No

amount of scrubbing will wash it away, is the rat-talk
on the block. Mama is a steadfast optimist sinking

in our backyard swamp. Papa is caught in prayers
seesaw motion, upside downs of our cowardice, from

all strange angles, Papa hangs, defying physics begging
some outer power to bring us the daily news of our 

circular pilgrimage. The depth of our burial is measured anew
with every motion we fancy. We are futuristic that way

--papa hopes. My baby sister toddles air with fragile lungs
bubbles magic to keep my spirits on par with wobbly

dancing patterns of life's sense of humor. I salute 
my baby sister every dawn and lay her to rest

lovingly every dusk. That's why I am an only child.
At school my friends blow angst into metal pipes 

hoping to cut the rope before the curtain goes up
My friends plant poison in little mini-pots for 

keepsakes. You never know. Nobody wants to cross
the river. The smart kids in my school froze a long time ago.

It's just us now--lined down. My neighborhood is fading
With every disappearing act, it expands in volume and stench.

That's the secret of our survival. Some folks want to redraw 
the streets. Some folks are weary of our moral gerrymandering.

Some folks chained in hazard waste dream of moving, of right 
of way, of self-adjourn, or acre-lands and river-glows.  Rumor has 
it sadly though that there ain’t enough rays even behind sunrise row. 

Susie Kimathi is a poet and writer based in NYC. She holds an M.F.A. from University of Washington. She has also worked in New York city’s public schools teaching at elementary level for 15 years. She lives with her beautiful daughter in Brooklyn.