Hydrants and Hoses
The hydrants are open—
roll the windows up
and approach the spray,
clear that all joy-filled screams
would be drowned out by the
Water. Pelting the windows.
Destroying a good wash and shine on that summer’s day.
Skin-stuck hand-me-down A shirts
stretched and dirt-streaked
draped over their chests
same way they draped over mine;
drenched in hydrant play.
Nearest pool too far to reach, but
better not get caught drinking from that hose.
The hoses are open
to full throttle, and there
is no avoiding the pressure.
Water boarded, blown airborne,
and to the earth, all at once
during pool season.
Black bodies good enough
to stop a fire hose.
Same one that fills up the ‘Whites Only’ pool—
where granny couldn’t swim.
That holy water too pure for her Black skin.
The sprinklers are on
in the center of a concrete cage
passing as a basketball court
two blocks past the hydrant.
But nephew is standing tall on the spout—
again. Knobby kneed
absorbing the pressure in soggy sneakers,
until Miss BusyBody calls to complain.
Pressure too low in the shower.
And they turn off the sprinklers
so we can’t play,
can’t cool;
and two blocks away
the hydrant goes from jet to drip.
That drip became powerful
in granny’s garden.
Placed her thumb over its mouth, and
that hose sprayed. Those flowers yielded;
blowing every which way
like granny in front of that fire hose.
But she planted them too deep
for the roses to blow away.
And I learned… to flower
meant having deep roots,
and breathing underwater,
and holding my breath,
‘til I got to where I could stand.
Before time came for me to dive back in.
They still open the hydrants;
and with granny gone,
I now hose the flowers.
until it’s time to hold my breath,
roll the windows up,
and approach the spray.
HANNAH WILLIAMS has been published in Iris Magazine and is slated for publication in Aethlon: A Sports Literature Journal later this year. Williams is currently pursuing an MFA in Fairleigh Dickinson University’s low residency program.