Greenland Poem by Alan Hickman

From the cockpit of my Daddy’s jet,
Our lawn was just a green patch on the block;
But Daddy wasn’t looking down those days
He’d flown to Thule, in a plane that swam
And broke the ice. I’d seen the photographs:
The island of his features tipped in fur.

That year we lived in town when things went ’wry
My Grandpa sent a man to put them right.
On lazy days, when honeybees patrolled
The yard, and horned toads bivouacked on the grass,
Old Cotton rolled the push mow up and down
The outpost lawn; I sprang in step behind.

My child’s face twisted in a squint, I scanned
The skies for flocks of birds that flew
In tight formations to the sun; the Black
Man wore a kerchief on his head, which hung
In knots, and batted midges with his eyes
The sweat fell in a river down his back.

My mother kept a tumbler by the sink
A jelly glass that only Cotton used;
On cloudy days it sat in quarantine
Upon the sill. On days when Cotton mowed,
My job it was to fetch the glass (“No ice! ”)
And fill it from the tap behind the house.

At bedtime, with the globe light on, I crouched
Before a shelf, chock full of untouched things:
Three figurines on each for Gary, Sue,
And me, the china mug from Germany,
Inscribed with Daddy’s name: “From all the troops
In Ultima the Knights of the Blue Nose.”