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Sean Forbes -- Poetry

Haiku
Winters in Southside Jamaica, Queens

           1
My grandmother praised
the deep silence of winter:
drug deals forced indoors.

            2
No summer drive-bys
or  innocent neighbors lost
to dull black semis.

            3
We live on a block
of ten row houses, can hear
every goddamn sound.

            4
Eight in the morning.
My boots should crunch snow instead
of pink topped crack vials.

            5
Hey, yo, curly top!
You gotta sister? Bet she’ll
gimme some fine trim.
  
            6
Grandma prays for me
to fail the ghetto before
puberty begins.

            7
  Damon approaches
me. Asks if I want to make
a large roll of cash.

            8
Christmas Eve. Best friend
shot dead. Closed casket. Barely
a face left on him.

            9
Morning, purple sky.
Two drug dealers escort Mom
to the train station.

            10
 Damon slams me up
against a brick wall. Whispers
he likes boys my size.

            11
Boy, you betta get
your hide home. Your Grandmama
worried sick ‘bout you.
  
            12

Grandma delivers
plates of ackee and codfish
to every drug house.

            13
 Spark of a fired gun
in cold night air. Damon holds
my trembling right hand.

            14
Grandpa spends every
winter with his lover in
Providencia.

            15
Neighbors wonder why
we’ve never been robbed, even
though Grandpa’s not here.

            16
Undercover cop
busts Damon. Twenty to life,
that’s the word at church.

            17
She dreams he takes his
woman to secret islands
deep beneath the sea.

            18
Grandma holds a lunch.
Tells neighbors to befriend those
kids they fear the most.

            19
The blare of sirens,
helicopter high above.
Sounds I heard all night.

Sean Forbes

Sean Frederick Forbes is an adjunct professor in English and creative writing at the University of Connecticut. His poems have appeared in Crab Orchard Review and Long River Review. He lives in Thompson, Connecticut. 

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