From the window: A poem

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Josh Kahen/Staff

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I see into glass square-divided faces and rooms

cut off from each other but linked

by sight and sound. No contact,

just wavelengths and color.

 

Faces stare back from inside the 

small squares, becoming gallery

artifacts of a time unforeseen.

 

We became monuments that are

studied by others. Some faced,

others avatared by their name.

 

What’s truly behind the name?

 

Not the linguistic background

or the reason they were named

after their abuelita or grand-père

or shaqiq, but why do they choose

to hide their face?

 

Connections? Responsibility?

A student cooks but listens,

a mother cooks and is present.

Present in class, at home.

Our presence indoors can be too much

sometimes, more often now

than when we didn’t want to

leave the quiet of our homes.

 

I remember as a child,

small and unread, I hated

being in class, too loud and I

was too lazy

to move from class to class. 

I dreaded having to walk to class,

to get to class and interact, but now

the faces through the window

do not provide the freedom

of movement despite

my ability to be able to 

turn off the little faces that look

back at me.

 

Contact Daniel Orona at [email protected].