Segments; Things I Fight by Leen Raats

Segments

I remember how we used to count paving stones

between home and school. Straps of backpacks

leaving marks on bare legs.

Your arm through mine, an anchor.

I remember how every day was an adventure. 

We, the heroes, sharing segments of tangerine  

and secrets in a made-up language. 

Later, at the big school where we didn't want to go

you taught her the secret language I invented for us.

I waved, but you didn't seem to notice me.

That playground, an island.

I remember how I walked home alone, counting nothing.

My backpack behind me like a sad dog.

The weight of an uneaten tangerine in my pocket.

Things I fight

The unfulfilled expectations of the people

who still tolerate my presence or are willing

to pretend for the sake of mutual friends or family.

Losing battles. Bottomless glasses and nights.

Rampant prejudices that feed on nitrogen

and generalization. The inflation of compassion.

Vague fears about nothing

coming from everywhere like monsters

that refuse to stay hidden under my bed.

Fiery preachers of capitalism, licking

every apple with cloven tongues

until the bubble bursts.

Myself, white knight without a sword

and, of course, time. Always time.

Everything but windmills, to be honest.

Windmills are fine.