Afternoon, Virginia, 1957
(for Emma Smith)
In a haze of white, the steam rose
from its iron
always at afternoon in front of the screen
Emma’s incessant staring
at the daytime dramas, the melodramatic
love and perfidy, the unrequited claims.
Strange that none of what she viewed
was real — made in her own image —
I could see that, understand, just as I
watched her hands move back and forth
diligently smoothing out each crease,
whites, then colors, the repetition of
setting things apart. Each wrinkle,
each seam pressed clean by that monotony
— her job, dutifully preparing
what others would inspect. Watching
that circular world, those quick
asides and secrets, she knew
everything, but had no part. Removed yet
concentrated, she heard the snowy
faces speak, as though what I’d seen
of fire, riot and police
affected her not in the least.
Crease by crease
she made her way through the duteous
chores, while in the corner I played, watching,
wondering, too, the extent of our
oppression.
​
from Transatlantic by Walter Holland © 2001