Swinging her feet
above the green
and yellow squares
of polished linoleum,
a young girl absentmindedly
runs her index
around the rim of a hole
cut through the heavy wooden top
of her oversized desk.
Told it held
an inkwell
many years ago,
she closes her eyes
and pictures rows
of feathered quills
scratching and leaking
black squiggling
lines across sheets
of thick cream paper.
With emphasis
an occasional swift stroke
fans the airless room.
Elegant captives
in starched uniforms,
they're launched - heads bowed -
through a tiny keyhole
called history. They soar
through imaginary realms
while being taught
these accounts are REAL
because someone
remembered
to write
them
down.
Way
back when
people believed
the Earth was flat,
you'd fall off
if you went
too far.
Tucked into bed later that night,
the girl thinks of the brave souls
who sailed their creaking ships
into the sunset,
its molten yolk
extinguishing itself
along the horizon,
fusing sea and sky
into seamless night.
She pulls the covers up
over her head
and rocks
herself
to sleep
at the edge
of the known world.
YOU ARE READING
History
Poetry~History is subjective. Aside from the where, when, and who of particular events or conflicts, we're usually given the dominant culture's perspective of what happened and why. Often self-serving, our collective memory and even our collective amnesi...
