Valeria

“You better use that sc’atch paper, now”
     She warned, with feigned alacrity,
“I don’t wanna see no mess.”
     “Don’t come in here with no foolishness.”
     “C’mon, now, show yo’ work.”

Linking twenty bussed-in kids, mostly
      white and mostly lousy with math,
To Euclid: the street off Keech,
      She was the curvy embodiment
      Of its Greek-honed hero.

Word problems, in this sweet world of Slate,
     Chalk, sweat, unhidden erections
And harsh, innocent cruelties,
     Faded behind stifled chuckles and
     Algebra: its own sake.

Day’s end sneakings back for extra help,
     Lips parting, white and gold-toothed grins,
She taught more than “solve fo’ X.”
     She shared lilac-wrapped humanity
     Within tight, buxom hugs

That we cherished but dared not admit,
     Re-ordering operations,
 As our A-D-Ds allowed:
     Latch-keyed, lanky, and fearing failure:
     Always show our work.

Monuments and Memorials

Until yesterday, the past lived behind us,
     Treading through history,
Yearning for the next generation,
      Lording lessons
Taught by men who walked barefoot on mortars
      Seeking imperfect good,
      Dug into trenches, inching:
            Away from tyranny,
            Away from hate,
            Away from oppression,
                  Awkwardly.

Until today, the future lied before us,
      Alternating plain truth
With the brandished inconvenience of
       Hypocrisy
Cloaked in patriotism and parades
      For heroes yet to come,
      Marching Westward until:
           West encroached upon East,
           West circled round,
            West promised destiny,
                  Manifest.

Until tomorrow, presence lingers with us,
      Complicating sure hope
With legitimate disappointment
      In pained failures,
Tempered with unsullied optimism.
      Our obsessive pastime:
      Memorializing Monuments on
           Memorials built upon
           Monuments to our
           Memorials:
                History saluting tomorrow’s
                     Yesterdays:
                             Our gift:
                                   Our present.

A hundred hundred hundreds.

It took for George Washington
And the Continentals, from
            Boston to New York;
From McConkey’s Ferry
            To Trenton
            On Christmas night
In the first year.

Who fought for liberty
And then for Union
            Against secession,
Against abominations,
            Like tariffs
            And human bondage,
In the next first year.

That pile up in looming heaps,
In books of fickle history,
            Away from the birth
In spite of institutions–
            Like freedoms–
            Bought then forgot
In the third first year.
 
A hundred hundred hundreds
Since the first year’s
Celebrations and emendations
            And self-righteous
            Back-patting;
Paid in: 
             Millions of miles marched,
                        From Democracy to Federalism,
             Men lost,
                        In wars at home and distant,
             And words forsaken,
                        On burned and yellowed parchment.
             Two hundreds barely,
                        More or less,
Since the first year.
 
Now tell me about a billion.
Now tell me about a trillion:
A million millions.