for G. Pauline Kok-Schurgers

When you were young and
still trafficking memories
that follow dream-logic
(nightmarish indeed),
you’d squint through the blinds,
and you’d watch as the foreigners
trample on history,
too loyal to see.

And as you recount with your books
and your flashbacks,
I wish I could save you
like you have saved me.
So hide in Sumatra,
and do what you’re told, or they’ll
scatter you, Oma,
out over the sea.

Now look beyond Holland,
past boys draped in violence,
throw out the binoculars.
Blinding? Don’t see.
You’re overused, beautiful,
grasping at minor chords.
You’re an antenna
too focused to see.

For as the sun shatters bright,
gay and traumatic,
off aeroplanes painted red
straight over me,
I’ll think of you, old-soul,
as energy plummets.
I’ll speechlessly listen,
unsquintingly see.

Now sign the book, Oma,
and put aside difference.
Set fire to the trauma and
break me in three.
Save one for yourself,
and give two to the memories.
As for the rest?
It belongs to the sea.

For I am a friend who has broken his promises.
I am a man who has sinned upon thee.
And I am a child who cannot understand
the subtleties nestled in your tragedy.