Strolling
Some places you could die in,
if you could just go on
living there.
The boy, his legs bare and small,
swinging in the stroller, sockless, suede-shoed feet touching
the runner. He can walk, but the woman
keeps him from running
into the street. He won’t obey
but listens to everything we say. Head tilted, face changing
with the conversation. Green leaves leap through fences.
Cars wait while we cross. And each bird the boy greets
with its name, “Bird,” flies away. The sky holds everything.
The woman pushes her son’s son along. Her arms strong enough
to hold
nine strong horses prancing.
She’s given her money away
because someone had to bury
a child. That is the worst thing.
A mother burying her child.
I would never do that to her, even though it means
what it means.
A thousand years from now
when I am only a dream
I will dream this dream
of strolling.
Perhaps I am doing so now.
Angela Jackson, "Strolling" from And All These Roads Be Luminous. Copyright © 1998 by Angela Jackson. Reprinted by permission of TriQuarterly Books.
Source:
And All These Roads Be Luminous
(TriQuarterly Books, 1998)
