Five Poems

After/Shocks of a dialectic or how I played the blame game for a brief moment

“Progress resistant,” admiringly persistent— after/shocks of a dialectic between the bizarre and the mundane.

“What ifs” are like the August rain, a deluge of self-doubt tumble and spill from storied black alps. Deforestation of a beautiful mind tossed in Gobineau’s mahogany bottom drawer, bloodied with le sel de la mer.

Sweetened thingification rims the beloved rum glass shores of Cap Français, Providence, Bordeaux and Liverpool, while the souls of Ginen are gashed in a banal blue ledger—indices of power.

License and servility compas through boardrooms on alphabet avenues. Hips and thighs hypnotized by the brilliant cry of Septen. One hand unmoored along the spine of l’Artibonite, the other

u n f u r l e d, reaching for cheeseburgers and cognac that have stained reciprocal treaties, inked with suspicion.

Sean Penn for President. Sean Penn for President. Elect him the second white king of La Gonâve and let the Inter-American Development Bank fund a new Haitian thespian class, so that they may ACT accordingly. Perpetual understudies dancing in a quadrille to the Palais shouting:

“I am Sam. Mon oncle Sam, tell me again the marvels of cruise ships, of blackjack, and tales of corn bread soldiers donning empire’s bejeweled Bible belt.”

They whipped up roads… To subdue.

Built schools… To Americanize.

Invested millions… To dictate, supporting darker despots who suffer from la politique de la Mercedez,la politique du ventre.

We FED you memories. We FED you lives. We FED you futures. We FED you.

Now, mange. Mange. Mange l’âme véritable. Eat Truth’s soul.

Re/member the wearied limbs of history, bare life and promises hurled in the back of a MINUSTAH truck, keys in the ignition, but moving

no      where.

Dedette—sista/nanny

As they walked out of the pre-war building Aaron refused Claudette’s hand as if it was The malanga she tried to feed him at home. He savored the soup but hated when she Tricked him into thinking it was a white sweet Potato. He was especially Belligerent today and she frustrated As they crossed Park Avenue.

Wilma called in sick. Yet, are we ever ill When the memory of a clanking machete Whipping the rusted neck of a wheelbarrow Crammed with cane still haunts our sleep. I know her sister flew in from Kingston. They’re Probably on Canal St., while I’m left with Aaron Making small talk with the other nannies at the playground.

“Marie, please speak French to Aaron. I love the way it sounds.” A bilingual child likened to her grandmother’s ivory brooch, something to display, Emboss onto the minds of elevator chatterboxes and at the end of co-op board meetings.

Lineage is currency.

Why does she still call me Marie? Wilma told Her to put her full name on her resumé. Every girl in Petit Goâve was named Marie. In Brooklyn, she became Erzulie. Who speaks French in the U.S. anyway?

When I was potty training Aaron, Wilma’s Boss poured all her bordeaux down the toilet. “New money,” Wilma digged.

English is currency.

And I spoke Kreyòl when she was not around. My husband’s guffaw rocked Nostrand Avenue When I told him how Aaron tchipe when his Mother reprimanded him. They don’t beat their Kids here. Time Out is both an interval of

Adolescent “reflection” and a weekly For those with disposable income. That dream Widens my grin and quickens my pace where The sun also rises. Post-modern rikshaws Clip open-toed Manolos—future employers.

$800 for a stroller… Excess intrigues me. It’s foreign, like me.

...and kisses

When I was young I didn’t know what grits were. Manman used to cook us mayi moulen ak aran, Cornmeal and herring, With a little slice of avocado. She kissed us before she left for the Home— Hebrew—3 to 11, 11 to 7—to clean and Care for some old lady...