Schyler Butler
As If Still
I am not hunky dory, splashed upon a hot sidewalk
next to you watching the sun spill its mercy on the horizon.
It is your horizon, this ivy laced suburb
a portrait hanging free in your nostalgia.
You point here and there, your former home
a Hallmark greeting boasting trees once new
and now grown, surrounded by avenues
and green spaces that remember your laughter,
that cradled the broken pride of your first car crash,
that watched you punch your brother then disappear
into its woods, mulberry potions laced with black willow leaves
a bit of solace. A prosperous childhood, I suppose, since despite
its hiccups and squabbles, you love your family and they love you.
It is no accident that my insides scream with every step,
that I jostle beneath the sun’s rays and yearn to raise my fist in its direction,
this same sun spilling upon my youth though I couldn’t see it,
my nostalgia dreaming of salvation for my people,
of creating time machines for every generation as if different versions
of me could travel back to plantations, to new ghettos
and cold houses and all that desolation with bowls of mercy,
as if the sun spilled in me something that could save them.
next to you watching the sun spill its mercy on the horizon.
It is your horizon, this ivy laced suburb
a portrait hanging free in your nostalgia.
You point here and there, your former home
a Hallmark greeting boasting trees once new
and now grown, surrounded by avenues
and green spaces that remember your laughter,
that cradled the broken pride of your first car crash,
that watched you punch your brother then disappear
into its woods, mulberry potions laced with black willow leaves
a bit of solace. A prosperous childhood, I suppose, since despite
its hiccups and squabbles, you love your family and they love you.
It is no accident that my insides scream with every step,
that I jostle beneath the sun’s rays and yearn to raise my fist in its direction,
this same sun spilling upon my youth though I couldn’t see it,
my nostalgia dreaming of salvation for my people,
of creating time machines for every generation as if different versions
of me could travel back to plantations, to new ghettos
and cold houses and all that desolation with bowls of mercy,
as if the sun spilled in me something that could save them.
Biography
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Schyler Butler's (she/her) work appears in Transition, Hobart, African American Review, Narrative Northeast, Obsidian, Juked, and elsewhere. Currently, she lives in Columbus, OH. Find her on Instagram: @whistle_the_blues and Twitter: @SchylerButler
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