History: A Lesson

Parade of vessels from across the seas, carrying
death and marketing schemes for the soul.

Lumber and hemp; tobacco, salt and spice: the measure
of a man’s or woman’s years of indentured service.

Land to till, forests to slash and burn.
The harvest that always goes to some other.

In the schoolhouse the foreign teacher turns
on her heel, confronts the monkey’s child.

The committee decides: You must not
have written this essay yourself, boy.

Rust that blooms across each hinge face
so the door never lies straight again.

Something that bends the grass
to flush out the hidden creatures.

Slick of oil all the way to the wharf.
Scritch of a match across granite.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← The pilot makes one last public announcementCogito, ergo →

2 Comments


  1. Luisa, It doesn’t just happen in colonialism. In eighth grade, I was also told I could not have written the essays and poems I wrote because I have a disability in math; the teachers just assumed I must be stupid.

    Reply

  2. Robbi, I understand. Colonials, people of color, women, those with disabilities— all that are considered marginal or minority.

    Reply

Leave a Reply