A note from the editor:
In observance of Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Mirror Indy commissioned a poem by Mitchell L. H. Douglas.
“The children are always ours, every single one of them,
all over the globe; and I am beginning to suspect that whoever
is incapable of recognizing this may be incapable of morality.”
— James Baldwin
He turns cartwheels in the crosswalk
on my block where “drivers”
are known to wish cars
to planes.
Friends in tow, two his size cut low
to the pavement & a fourth w/his fro
in the wind.
They’re so small, you think.
Isn’t someone missing them?
The gymnast looks up
@ your sweat through the cut
of your lawn & says “Hello”
in a voice that belies his body, like a song
born years before his run. You return
the greeting, make sure he hears you
over the hum of the mower.
& they’re off, the world
not big enough to contain the wonder
in their eyes for what they might find
on this corner, the next — all the streets
that they call home. How you find yourself
wanting something for children
who aren’t your own.
Be careful, you say,
(maybe out loud, maybe in your head)
& the next time you see them, they walk
on the telephone wires
over the street, dance high above
our same numbing days, cars
that rev & spin, drive
like stop signs are suggestions.
Maybe they’re safer on the wires
since it’s not New Year’s Eve & revelers
aren’t sending automatic resolutions
to the sky. They turn, balance,
never miss a beat. Turn,
balance, laugh, dare one
to backflip say, Oooooooooh!
when they do
like it was everything. & maybe
it is
& always
should be.
May you see anxious cars
learn to crawl. May you know
endless cartwheels
& friends
who follow
& friends
who lead
so you can be back-
bone or tide. Whatever
keeps you free.
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