The beautiful day begins in the house.
At the end of it, all that’s left of it is the moon,
Shimmering in all the night’s light.
A door to another world opens.
The only movement is a page turning in a book.
Suddenly, without notice, an inconceivable object drops.
The thing jumps and twirls and once again drops.
A person from another time, the future, enters the large house.
The man, pacing back and forward, finally sends away the hovering book.
He magically transports it to the glistening moon.
Something like a black hole, a portal inexplicably opens.
The book vanishes in a fading yellow light.
The visitor sees something bright, a room full of light.
And inside, a piece of paper from the hands of a child drops.
The door of the room slightly, quietly opens.
A child and her grandmother are drawing and inscrutable house.
In a circle and a beam of inconceivable beauty appears the moon.
On the page, like the hovering object, once again, is the sight of a book.
The child explains that she has, many times that year, read the book.
But her grandmother slowly shows the girl the true “light”.
Now, the girl understands that she was wrong, and now appears the moon!
It comes closer and closer, and then, like a shooting star, down it drops.
The planet has gone down from the sky to have a conversation in the house.
The moon elegantly flies in, as large as an elephant, and its mouth opens.
And now all of the people come close together and a road opens.
The grandmother and child are guided by a rather large book.
In time, the home disappears; they have left the house.
The book vanishes, and all that leads them is a guiding light.
The key to a room, calmly, as if carried by the wind, drops.
“Come in and let’s have a talk,” says not a person, but a face in white, the moon.
The grandmother is surprised, for she is seeing the real, live moon.
A beautiful and long conversation through all the night opens.
Then as dawn arrives, blood-red, the tone of their voices drops.
Grandmother and child come out of the wonderful book.
Outside it is day, a new beginning, another lively light.
They walk o’er their field and talk till’ they reach the house.
In the morning, the otherworldly man leaves the house.
Also, he disappears in a now magnificent golden light.
That is the end; there are no more pages in this book.
Copyright © Alan Grinberg | Year Posted 2005
Grandma’s brown knuckles crinkled
As she gently peeled the heirloom
Potatoes, discarding the brown-
Skinned strips into the garbage
Bin. She was at home here, alive
And aloud, tastes and scents mingling
In the air like wispy fairies in Neverland, mingling
With the mauve, sun-kissed raisins lying crinkled
On slices of butter-brown toast. She is alive
Here, sheltered by the pots and pans, heirlooms
from her mother Wilma, who once was the garbage
Lady, the help, for a white family uptown. Wilma's brown
Skin was the softest variety of brown,
Likened to silky mocha-hued beads mingling
With glints of the golden hour. Garbage,
However, was her epithet. She was crinkled
Black plastic to that white family. Her heirloom
was the oppressive garrote of Jimmy Crow — alive
And well in the hearts of many, still alive
Today in the gashes and slashes brown
Men, women, and children still absorb, heirlooms
from a past infected with rankling vehemence mingling
With entitled gall. Wilma's old hands were dry-crinkled,
Just like her daughter, who now throws the skin in the garbage,
Who marched hard to not be viewed as garbage,
Who plans to keep Wilma’s soulful memory alive,
Who cooks until her freckle-speckled hands are crinkled,
Who is loud and proud to be her shade of brown,
Who gets straight to business and foregoes the mingling,
Who works so her progeny can be have the proudest heirloom:
Pride. Pride in those gently-knotted heirloom
locks, pride in the skin that was once garbage,
Pride, pride, pride. Her ever-beating heart mingles
With the cosmos — she is a celestial being, alive
In the splendor of black joy. She also likes her toast brown
And her sun-kissed raisins ever-so-crinkled.
And while her heirloom knuckles stay tightly crinkled,
Her heart will mingle with stars and keep the love alive,
Because she — we — will never be garbage again. We’re just brown.
Copyright © Zachary Gilstrap | Year Posted 2018