I would notice the subdivisions first, if I looked down from my window seat
and that used to bother me. That there are folks finding pleasure in separation
or rather that they have names for theirs and I had an almanac of urban segregation.
I had boarded-up cul-de-sacs made out of what few triggers the west side
nurtured. So, here, the window is essential; is certainty for my head to rest upon.
Seeing is believing. And at this distance, it isn’t so much about what I can’t see
as it is about the etymology of a tongue. Let us discuss. That rarely anyone with the job title
of actuary is sure of the corsage tomorrow may bring. That I will concede this
is how we prepare: retroactively and armed with astringent. But never how acne reiterates
its own harm. Harm, on the other hand, can be found anywhere. We don’t
even have to venture that far nor make laps out of rumor to find it. Behind the multiple
bodies that awaited baggage claim, we all cared not for the shuffled thumps,
only for what was ours. And ours are the aux cords static-shock loud enough for another
benign gathering of bodies. Ours are these bodies that gather for sporting events
some call modern-day slavery and can you blame them for that. We are all at a loss
for words and more when we are courted. Even now, my tense hands and yours
have planted warmth on this page in hopes of something we are both searching for.
So, sometimes, I critique the very worst that I can see of myself in others. And if
I tend to notice subdivisions, forgive me. But know, I used to dream of harmonicas,
of humming heaven into instruments without having some rough addendum of heat.
Olatunde Osinaike is a Nigerian-American poet originally from the West Side of Chicago. He is Black, still learning and eager nevertheless. An alumnus of Vanderbilt University, his most recent work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Apogee, HEArt Online, Hobart, Anomaly, Puert