When They Come for Us, and: Swisha

When They Come for Us

My people, my people—sou lari anba tant blan.Skin folk rubbed betweenwhite fingers like playdoughand set in sun to hardenand become a shelled thing.

They come for us.

Dollars press against hungrypalms as the blood on our lipsis strong and bitter now. Itake the strength of Fatiman,sewing it to the hems of skirtslike Catherine binding the drapoI now press against my breast.

We are winning. Wildtankou dlo anba golgota. We arewhole bodies of Yemeya. Tande mchante non l. Listen to the songof angry bodies crashing alonga coast spread open and taken.My people, cut from kinfolkand reworked like property.

My people, together nou gen fos,my people, blood bone buried deep in the soil of history,my people, sugar cane men ak yon souri so sweet,my people, Manman Ayiti on golgota never making it to Miyami,my people, Jaspora on corner selling pate, minutes, and a dream,my people, in Camry riding eight deep to the babeku,my people, lot bo dlo ki fet anba san Ayiti,my people, with the difficult name ki pa vle speak Inglich,my people, ki pa vle di I’m sorry,my people, depi Ayiti ki pa nan rans,my people, lave men w ak moun ki soti pou defini Ayisyen,

and when they come for us,my people, we’ll be ready.

Swisha

I done came all this waysun stuffed deep in my pockettaking their whole ass system off balance.Strip the earth of its soul betweena spicy tongued shaven thingthat is loud like Kayiman 1791.

Their soil reaps the benefitsof a salted labor so I knockwind back over mountains. Skinof my kin becomes unburiedand I done made all these plansfor 40 hectares of sugarcaneand a bunch of parsleythat won’t run blood.

I been put in the time. Beenmomma to stateless unidentifieds.Shit, I took the whole ass solèyand got it in my pocket.

Ain’t I done enough?

Joana Choumali, Zebras must be free, 2019. Series Albahian.

Image copyright the artist and courtesy of Gallery 1957.