Because There Was and There Wasn't a City

Daydream of the homesick general
with a gourd gut. Grounds of the narrow
beef-broth river. Expanse of barracks
and fairgrounds, cathedral malls, bright
jeeps. Namesaken, swollen town.
Copper-top towers of insurance magnates, 
medical hall of fame. City of remaining
maples, snuffed neon, pensioners
ruminating over donuts.

Someone keeps the kitchen light on
for me there. The half moons
under her eyes hold my fingerprints.
Blue boxes, black walnuts, aftermath
of skunk. A tunnel I threaded
my bike through. On summer nights,
the howls of monkeys caged in an aging
amusement park gave chase.

City, I can almost see you. City, I have
a flawed allegiance. My founding
father is the doctor mopping
classroom floors.

City of benign industries, warm gusts
of cornflakes and beer. In pauses,
the river itself—slick muck, still turtles,
rot. A volunteer on scaffolds
faithfully repaints Return to Your
Fortress, O Prisoners of Hope.

City of my sudden lankiness, your clouds
spark with plus and minus signs,
drenching restored Victorians, forgotten
laundry, the path where my name
is an absence in a park bench.


Sadiqa de Meijer’s first book is Leaving Howe Island. She lives in Kingston. The title “Because There Was and There Wasn’t a City” is from the work of Jamelie Hassan, an artist.