Curves of the Land

2008 News Report on Fidel (for Dewey)

“Death wrestled the giant and won” silenced the revolution, anti-Fidel celebrants gathered but, at home, the liberator listened to the radio broadcast and smiled once more.

Point of View

My garden holds no ambiguities. My red gingers are red, my allamandas startling yellow, the grass an untroubled green;

yet my neighbor insists there are mysteries in my garden, shapes without voices,

for he has been watching the curves of the land and the weeding, and he can’t understand

why my bending and stretching upset him so. He has become quite philosophical about which end is up.

Sold Again (Generation Now)

Old language can’t reach me I’m one of the hip-hop, baggy pants bling dog posse, to teach me you got to understand the vision in my grille understand why I’ve rejected the X and Y theories for this story. They are building more jails rooms of no return where they put our mamas to lie bellies in the ground, they beat them then, they beating us now, so that is why we dazzle with diamond studs we call our mamas whores, our brothers dogs and daddy ought to be called nigger, NO, it is just ’til the still-being-born constitution is born.

Dance, Girl, Dance

“Music—you can’t stop it. It took a long time to get these ready-to-give-up legs here. Play another nice one, girl.” She pulled her 89-year frame onto the floor, and danced. “You two don’t know the limbo walk or off-limit, eh? Pity the swelling tek these legs, can’t show off again.” But for a while she did shake off some distant verse.

The Cry of the Snapper

The dreadlocks from Little Bay did not worry about worry. Invoked by the sea breeze, icy beer and a spliff, I could tell as he turned to the music, he was ready with the rhythm of the rising tide. I selected a yellow tail snapper from his catch. “Come home and cook for you,” he smiled, flashing a gold-capped tooth. I laughed that throaty unnerving laugh, but he never flinched. Can’t be sure of the sequence; the music lapped us into knee-high grass and the sea spray settled like the skin around my nipples and thighs knotted like mangrove roots giving in to the deep, held by the strength of knowing arms and the cry of the snapper, caught.

Sunday Verandah Story

Young-breasted girls tidy, parading short skirts while boys kotch on the nearest verandah rail, same as our days. Maisie daughter pregnant, Lue gone a foreign, and Deacon suspicious. A few young men riding bicycles, girls braiding hair and Mas John from the corner shop blaring his new sound and selling rum too dear. But board houses change to concrete and jade vines curling through the lattice work replaced by bright plastic flowers.

Gardener’s Justice

Half sentences could not hide the body of a ghetto youth:

“Him dead ma’am . . . the funeral . . . can’t afford to feed myself.

Face down . . . hot street, ma’am . . .

an we know the bwoy . . . grow side a we.

Fred baptize in big church, now Pastor no wa’an bury him.”

He held the cutlass tight, his hand shook.

“So they hold the killer yet?” No, ma’am, him still alive.

Bird Shooting Season (for Don Banks)

He died peacefully just before bird shooting season. At the funeral many a bird flew noticeably by the church doors. One daring nightingale flew restlessly among the pews, causing a stir. Some said he’d come back as a bird, but I believe the birds had heard the news, for he had been the best shot, so they had sent knowing flights to see that this giant was not just ailing but put down for good.

Kumina Queen

(Ma Ma, what did you learn?) That my step is your step the spin, dip, twirl backbend, is one to pass on that Bongo is a...