Shopping Cart
    items

      ←

      July 3, 2019Red Brick TownRayon Lennon

      I roll to Ohio
      To find my sister
      Who exists
      In a red brick town
      As flat as her affect.
      In the condo, her three
      Kids pool around her. I wave
      To them as the stranger
      I am. They don’t wave
      Back, two teenage
      Girls, one tall as Naomi
      Campbell, the other
      About half white; and one
      Boy who is in love
      With breaking the law. “Nice
      To see you,” I say. “I’m sorry,”
      Sis says. “What
      Do you want?”
      I say, “To see you.”
      She sends the kids
      Out to spend time
      With water guns
      Or their boyfriends.
      “Sit down,” she says.
      I don’t. The blue leather
      Couch looms
      Ominous as the hurricane
      Heart of the Caribbean
      Sea. “I hear
      You’re a therapist,”
      She begins. I nod.
      “And you’re a nurse,”
      I say. She’s in a light
      Bluish outfit. “Did you
      Figure out that
      You’re gay yet?” she smiles.
      “Don’t be childish,”
      I let out. She says,
      “You won’t find
      Pity here.”
      The carpet looks
      Like an overused golf
      Course. I pray her therapist
      Told her she’s borderline.
      She grins. The heat in the living
      Room inches toward
      Insufferable. “Life’s not
      Been easy,” I say
      Now. “We got here
      The hard way. We are
      Barrel children, after all.”
      She nods. She looks
      Like depression. I remember
      Her constantly trying
      To die as a kid
      In Jamaica, threatening
      To run out in front
      Of a truck or jumping
      Off the stone wall
      Into the speeding brown
      Sludge of the gully during
      A storm. All after dad
      Left us for America.
      Her face is brittle
      From too many slaps
      And punches from
      Men who loved her.
      She’s fatter after
      Too many babies
      And too much greasy
      Food. Scars from a recent
      House fire litter her arms
      And legs. Here stands
      The damaged gal
      Who used to pummel
      Me until my nose streamed
      Red. The sun
      Wants to burn through
      A window. “I remember
      The first time
      You called me
      A whore,” she says.
      “I was 12. You were 7.”
      It was after church
      On a Sunday in front
      Of our old house
      In Jamaica. “It made
      Me want to die.
      My own brother
      Calling me trash.
      I know I hurt you
      Too. I hit you
      For no reason.
      I let you fall off
      The bed and knock
      Your head on the concrete
      Floor. I couldn’t
      Catch you. We couldn’t
      Afford a crib. And mom’s
      Bed was too high.
      You were always
      Smart but never
      Quite right. I’m
      Sorry. You could’ve
      Been a supernova
      Genius. I myself
      Wasn’t the same after
      Dad left.” Cars scream
      In the distance. “It’s okay.
      You’re a queen,
      Sis,” I insist. She says,
      “Thanks. But don’t
      Lie. I’m sick
      Too. I couldn’t stop
      That freak older
      Boy from fucking
      With you under a bridge
      When you were too
      Young to know what
      Was going on.”
      The kids do sound
      Like a war outside.
      I say, “You didn’t
      Know until I told
      You afterwards,
      And while you closed
      The windows for
      The oncoming
      Rain, you cried.
      That meant a lot
      To me.” I hug her for
      Perhaps the first
      Time and say, “I love
      You.” She stops
      Breathing, and her
      Body steels up.
      “You don’t mean
      That,” she says. “I
      Love you,” I say
      Again as the kids
      Push open the door.

      from #63 - Spring 2019

      Rayon Lennon

      “My work operates in that magical gray area between poetry and fiction. For this poem, I wanted to dramatize a number of the reasons behind the recent outrage over children being separated from their parents at the border. In the news, the focus has been placed on children and how being separated from their families adversely affects them—while their parents hunt for the American dream. You don’t have to pick a side on this issue to empathize with the children. This poem widens the scope on the issue—by exploring what happens generally when parents leave their children behind to pursue the American dream. My father left Jamaica when I was born to work on apple farms in Connecticut. His departure decimated the family. He overstayed his visa and did not return to Jamaica for several years (he returned briefly after becoming a U.S. resident; he and my mother eventually divorced because of the long separation). I was six and my sister was around eleven years old when our father left for good. She changed the day he left and has never been the same. My relationship with her suffered because of this. This poem—an imagined journey to see my sister—attempts to address and repair the harm done. I think I’ve only hugged my sister once. It was the day after my wedding. It still shocks me how shocked she was when I pulled her in for a long hug. It made me sad then to think about all the love that didn’t exist between us.”

      →

      Related