By Sharan Strange
Creation by means of Sonia Sanchez Winner of the 2000 Barnard New lady Poets Prize
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On February 23, 1836, basic and dictator Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna and a Mexican strength of greater than 2,000 males introduced an attack opposed to Colonel William B. Travis of Texas, his military of one hundred fifty five males, and 15 civilians who have been residing within the fortress referred to as the Alamo. The Texans, who have been strengthened through 32 males via March 1, withstood the Mexican military till March 6.
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Extra resources for Ash
I am very hungry. I am incomplete. And none can tell when I may dine again. —Gwendolyn Brooks This page intentionally left blank First Sight A beginning and like a newborn you’re dazzled by sight. After ﬁfty years a corridor is no longer a corridor, a window is solid, holds a picture like a movie screen. The doctors have undone a lifetime of darkness— for what? You still close your eyes, won’t turn on lamps at home. The city seems a mirage, dishonest with constant movement, or so shy it ﬂattens into image, then shimmers.
His eyes are bright, sly, a little kind. They are young, still open, yet the intimation of all that was and is to come ﬂares in that meeting. Convergence: woman, fence, gaze, man—a scene as transport. A moment as bubble in the wind of absolution. There is no absolute, he thinks, yet there she is, creator, indifferent almost, poised to join will to cause, and he, the seeker who lays down his things, who follows her. III. I am very hungry. I am incomplete. And none can tell when I may dine again.
We don’t know enough shame to go inside. No, we stand in plain view, pass the chalice, a tambourine, like gypsies, read the spectators, size them up. The ﬁre in us let loose could consume this hell-bent world, this trick ﬂoor we believe in. Instead it rises out of us in song, mushrooming clouds of faith that cling to us like debt and sorrow. I watch you pass—brothers, sisters, with eyes that look scared, hard, closed and mysterious as the heart’s dark rooms. Your anguished faces mirror mine. I might be among you if I wasn’t ﬁfteen and the preacher’s boy.