Op Zondag

Geschicte sits on skirts cast over knees in Weiß-blau

Markings, earthenware imitating oma’s teacup and saucer sets.

Blossom drawings bloom—little frolicking frau, little working männer

Gather for Zuhause, a flood of salts, spices, rices, “other” oranges

That wait von heute on my white tableware, by “fair”  

Laws, but nicht dan—not then. 

Kinship with oma und opa’s homeland is 

Nach nehmen, a name, of strypan nation and station

In translation: Goods? Stolen. Land? Stolen. Culture? Stehlen. 

For when I ask for Dutch dinner nasi, the packet looks back at me 

Indian spices, Chinese rice, an African American cook

 Unforgiving of this theft ohne translation.

If I can’t buy op zondag because of religion 

Does this not hold the Crusades and Indigenous verletzen?

Re-formation by breaking land on the same grounds of gebeten?

When I take a church service pew droopie, dark licorice, sugar und salt,  

Were the harvested reeds not einmal from plantations? 

Bodies as beaten as the stalks for production?

If my name, Langendoen, means slow down

Does the Dutch bedeuten not say, “hard man” ebenfalls? 

Highlighting Geschichte verdamnt that is both black and Weiß-blau? 

And so I say, blonde hair and blue eyes, Langsame nach unten

Hart Mann: slow down, hard man; I’m asking 

What am I to do with my history?