Shopping Cart
    items

      September 7, 2022CrosswalkErin Redfern

      So what did I get from this boy I cared for
      as well as I could, and less than he deserved? I wanted
      to be wanted, which I thought meant loved.
      Full-grown at twelve, I’d been a freak towering over teachers,
      out-rebounding the boys I had crushes on. By nineteen
      I’d have nibbled praise from anyone’s cupped hands.
       
      But his praise! Bountiful, unabashed
      praise for a body shamed, a cherishing
      most white boys don’t learn. I guess we invested
      in our own kind of social security when we coupled
      his Will Smith fade to my Meg Ryan blonde,
      which he might have sometimes used
       
      as shorthand for “Don’t ask. I belong.” While I
      learned new ways to see dogs, pools, the states
      we had to drive through without stopping.
      That summer he took me to meet his mom, a teacher
      who raised her boys right. Could she tell
      how wild I was for his height, his strength
       
      that I never told anyone made me think
      of the ’80s sportscaster Jimmy the Greek
      and my dad repeating what he said,
      that the most athletic players were Black, but they still needed
      a smart white quarterback. Shit. I love my dad.
      But he said it, I heard it, it’s in me. And nothing I knew
       
      or knew to reach for could help me hold
      that hateful memory alongside my boyfriend’s beauty—
      his whip-smart word play,
      his open face and hands. I didn’t even always see him,
      the way the faces of those we love blur in close-up.
      Only his curling eyelashes stayed. And, after we graduated,
       
      his silky neck, the scent of it where I pressed my face,
      waking on the couch in his parents’ basement,
      imagining I’d do anything not to lose this
      and young enough to think permanence was a goal I could set.
      Though he was never more lost to me
      than my own self. At least, as much as I could, I paid attention.
       
      Once, in Chicago, I was ranting because a man
      slowed down in the crosswalk—I mean he stared at me
      behind the wheel of my F150
      and slowed down—and my boyfriend said don’t get salty,
      he’s just saying no white person can make him move,
      and I sat there and listened. I let that sink in.

      from #76 - Summer 2022

      Erin Redfern

      “‘I am a part of all that I have met; / Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough / Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades / For ever and for ever when I move.’ Or maybe all we’ve experienced is a sandstorm burying the very artifacts we need to find our way through. A poem is a flag tied to a stake marking a buried clue.”