Poems from Lyric: Poems Along A Broken Road
Exile | The Twisted Mirror | Size | Between His Fingers | In The Rain
In this land
where my parents have taken me
I am close to nothing
except the Earth.
Tasting the wind
to gather some scent of my history,
the breeze that blows
the rain that falls here
is bitter and cold
like them—
those others from whom the word
“coconut” has become an insult
“ackee,” the sound one makes
when one spits.
I ache to hear stories
from my mother
of tamarind falling from the sky
“I and I” dripping from Rasta men’s lips
fruit sold from Higgler thighs.
Yet in all these years
she has told me nothing
Jamaica died in me
in her silence.
The sun set on the island
when she left.
My mother refuses to let it re-arise.
At other times
I’ve hoped to see roots
grow from my father’s mouth
our family branch from his eyes
to hear of Kumina rituals working
and duppies unwilling
to cross to the other side.
Yet he never offered me
even my grandmother’s name
a photo of his wedding
or a hint of Westmoreland
or my family’s greater size.
What have I done to deserve this?
They offer me breadfruit when I cry.
Exile mars their faces as they eat.
They shovel forkfuls of rundown
as I make to ask them why.
I am lost in this land
where my parents have brought me.
He is fleshy.
Every ounce of him
Involved in his demise.
Stealth does not become him.
He cannot sneak
Into another man’s attraction here,
Nor turn a corner quickly
In hopes of evading his size.
He moves more slowly
As the moths flicker past him.
Rejection harms,
Weighs him further.
Sweat drips from his beard,
Coats his inner thighs.
Still, he remains.
Stays because to leave untouched
Is to fail, to lose more
In more ways than he can describe.
He kneels in the comfort of shadow.
Gives up the benefit of his eyes.
Waits—begging silently.
Forgets his own misshapen needs.
He must touch flesh to survive.
They come,
Finding relief between the rows of his teeth,
A salve for their abrasions,
A urinal for this moment in their lives.
They leave.
His penis in his hands
Kissed yet only by the night,
He tugs,
But loneliness is far stronger.
Mice are watching him.
Insects play in the light.
He imagines himself
Rotting there on his knees,
Knows
In the softness of his heart
That no one could be beautiful like this,
In their minds or God’s eyes.
Orgasm escapes him.
He climbs to his feet.
Sighs.
Shallow
Puddles of interest
Glisten
Like real
Attraction
In the sun
Hiding
My true
Motivation
Coarse denim
Conceals
The fleshly
Member
That is my blue
Impetus.
There are hands in my hair
the smell of sulfur 8
its tingle on my scalp
as the grease glides
on careful fingers
along the part shining now
on my full head
A comb on one side
holds the river of my hair
at bay.
There is a man in my hair
braiding deftly as we talk
about black folk
the stereo singing about love
He takes three reins and leads
my head towards him
I resist just enough
to let the cornrow come
then relax and tell him how
it hurts.
There are wishes in my hair
dancing between this man
and his fingers.
I got caught
In the rain
The other day
And was happy
To be drenched,
Excited to tear off
My useless clothes,
To fondle myself.
Wet ghosts
Slapped their
Tiny hands
Against the earth.
Raw emotions
Streamed down
Into the crease
Between my buttocks.
I felt
Strangely unalone.
