On the Bench, Page 2

  Bench

  I remember when I wrote those lines on the bench that day

  I was living in the house in Connecticut.

  It was whitewood road and the neighbors had just moved in.

  It was a sunny day and it had just rained.

  The parlor was clean and I dusted.

  I didn’t know what else I had to.

  The dishes had been done and the outside map had been slept.

  The pages in my desk were organized.

  My files were put away on the side of the bureau

  And the books were stacked on top of each other.

  The birds skated around on the outskirts of my windowsill.

  Occasionally, a bee would make it to my window on the second floor

  And hum along with the birds.

  I would look back from the bench towards my house with the desk.

 

  What I found out about my friend from a newspaper while I was sitting on the bench.

  I didn’t know

  That her mother’s name was Irene.

  The dark hands that ran through the dark braids were always were on her lap, equally.

  They, them. Those never showed me any pictures of postcards from Nigeria, West Africa.

  They never told me about the fences in the backyard with the pink paint that were chipped.

  They forgot to point out that Irene was born to two lower-middle class parents –

  Irene had parents who had dark, pruned hands from scrubbing and fixing –those types of parents.

  But Irene didn’t know.

  Her days were full of the warmth of early morning mazze beans and cassava, chocolate chipped

  In 1987, she sauntered over a line [called a border], there she was, Irene.

  Guava beans stuck in her teeth, face dripping with watermelon juice, gone was Nigeria, West Africa

  Now with two bachelor degrees, she was scrubbing the white plastic toilet seats, pay was done equally.

  Irene had two children, one husband; they shared the tiny room equally

  Irene was far away from the fried plantains that were the favorites of her parents

  But she missed the perfumes of tangerines and spice boiled yams of Nigeria, West Africa

  Someone should have her then about what she needed to know

  Because then she became one of two parents, it was that cancer. I didn’t know, Irene.

  Irene’s clear eyes became glossy, slightly out of place, chipped.

  The pink paint on the new house they had together was chipped.

  Irene left the chipped pink painted fence; now she shared a sidewalk curve with her neighbors, equally.

  Her daughters, Jire and Addi grabbed her hand tightly, Mommy, Mommy, -Oh, Irene.

  Irene wondered if her parents had heard of the word “subsidized housing” -or perhaps their parents?

  They didn’t know.

  The fragrance of Jollof rice and idi stew were lost, buried in the backyard farm in Nigeria, West Africa

  Pineapple season was going on now in Nigeria, West Africa .

  The paint on the old house was repainted, no longer chipped

  Graduate school helped Irene, now she knows.

  Sometimes, she looks at the people on the sidewalk and wishes they were aligned more equally

  The sorghum and suya she used to eat in the middle of night are only words of her parents

  And now, her daughters call her Irene

  Oh, Irene-

  Your daughters have your old postcards of Nigeria, West Africa

  Do you they know, your parents?

  Your new fence is no longer chipped

  And when you wake up in the morning, Jire and Addi want to know what this word is: equally

  Do you ever say no when they ask you want they want to know?

 

  My friend, Jire, the girl with the dark hands and dark braids; you did not tell me your mother’s name was Irene

  I want to see your bulletin board with the post cards of Nigeria, West Africa

 

  The man and the Bench

  The man and the Bench

  Wrapped tightly in his tarp

  Fingers with dirt underneath them

  Gripped the bench

  His chin,

  his untrimmed beard

  on the curve of the bench board.

  His head, with matted hair

  Grows through the spaces in the boards

  His feet are covered by worn socks.

  The red color is faded by ankle and the base of the foot,

  A tear next to the left toe

  Inside black boots

  That wrap themselves around the arms of the bench

  In hope of another layer

  They keep out the cold.

 

  Pearls

  Gloves that were tan

  Eyes that were blue

  Bright weather in May

  Lost thoughts of you

  That day

  In the field,

  Filled with hay

  The sun, a shield

  We looked away

  To different places

  No one could say

  Wore different faces

  Tan gloves

  Blue eyes

  May loves

  Bight skies

  Many days lost

  Fields that were large

  That day on bench, lost

  Our thoughts charged

  Long days

  In may

  That floated away.

  The Bench

  Today I sat on the bench,

  It was there

  I was there.

  And all was good in the world.