Hometown for an Hour: Poems

Winter, Chicago

Winter, Chicago Winter impounds the waves of Lake Michigan With one too-curious child caught in the frozen Undertow. What I want to see cannot be seen From this window, like the clock that once ticked At the end of my grandfather’s telescope. The child and the clock are overgrown By time and buildings. My grandfather is dead. He could tell time by the clock on the Wrigley Building, Twenty-three blocks south in its white gown. In my childhood insomnia I could tell Time by the binary lights of these buildings, Punched out like code for a nightmare machine. For one hundred hours now, it has been sub-zero; Since Friday, thirty-six thousand cars have stalled. Smoke unfurls from the North Side rooftops, Wool découpage atop the flat, photographed zones. The trees below are lassoed with lights, Gold constellations blurring the straight avenues. Snow sits on the shoulders of the statues Like the light of grace. A frozen horn ignites. The barrio darkens, a cold oven. Only the snow burns a sweet, blue flame. My life is a city on the head of a pin: Each block rehearses its epicenter, The horns blare, the caryatids shiver. My grandmother and her sister soon will sleep 4 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. Through the city’s frantic decibels. Though I guard the window like a sentinel, Death cannot be seen with a telescope, Nor can the child be recovered. Now sirens wail, a blue codicil. 5 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...