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81 Carnevale i “Oh shut off the Schubert,” Joan said to the nurse, sounds so vinegar and cool cannot help me now. The Indian woman one bed over, mantras David Rudder “and we aint finish, we aint finish, we aint finish yet.” Bring me, my cousin said, that music from an angel wrestler with long shank stretched when Africa held his head and Europe his feet so that Isis could deep kiss him. Bring to my bed that Trini Psalmist King to chant me into my too soon tomb. ii Twenty-five years ago when the Mighty Invaders paused in sprinkling half-light to hammer out Unchained Melody for the badjohns of Port of Spain who had not made bail, it was Pan Aubade by the Royal Jail: light rain. Here, a confession: that was the hydra year my ambition was to flee poetry to become a nun, wife, or flag woman. Ten years from that dawn, my friend Bernard powdered down from six feet four into a foot-high alabaster urn. 82 King David, King David Rudder Ras Mass is a High Mas, we play it for Jah Jah. Play now at soothsayer: This year when mighty invaders pass, Bernard will arise and walk out to the other world’s iron gates to escort my cousin in. Dr. Tom Yew, take care of Joan. ...

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