Page 48 - Contrast1993Fall

De Chirico's "Melancholy and Mystery of the Street"

Had she foreseen the looming, omniscient shadow,
she could have easily chosen a different street,
or maybe a different time of day
to walk home.
She could have asked for directions,
specifying pastel houses, friendly strangers,
and sunshine spilling from red rooftops.
But hurrying home from Becky's, it
mattered only that the route be quick,
convenient.
She was late for supper.
In her smart blue dress and bright red bow,
She spun the borrowed barrel hoop of the cobblestones,
timing her footsteps to the clicking rotations.
Eight years old,
She was happy.

Little did she suspect
an oppressive darkness would settle about her,
making the clustered houses seem sinister,
hostile,
their haughty faces mimicking her own.
Thinking back now,
it had truly pounced upon her.
She had seen the shadow across
other faces, other lives, wreaking
havoc in a balanced countenance.
But she was too preoccupied then,
with her hoop, her bangles, her
thousand small concerns.

It seemed that the reality
had slapped her hard, in the face.
Never before had she imagined the weight
of unfulfilled youth and bitter resentment.

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