What he confessed, studying wet circles on the beer table, was:
he could have married Margaret of England:
her mouth a glossed red line, the way her knees pressed
his on the bus, promising downy empires.
His indigene ferocity tamped down like the Queens horse
on clopping parades, he liked her; he liked
her student frugality of lust, always holding back some
for the library & 1st Class Hons.
Usually they went back outside (proper again) to patted cushions,
her legs like blue-breast feathers tucked in; to conversation, she listened
with Ludwig seriousness, brushing hair from her eyes;
opinions gliding down her Alpine nose; flutters of glee.
The more he thought about it: she could have played
the bhowjie for his people: sandals, the mosquito net;
the politics of retribution; saris gold-laced with tassels of self
reassembling; or the old khaki parsimony.
What might have been he dared not dare so he came home.
A girl was waiting; a position was waiting; service
to the nation, to pretty Vrajisha of Corentyne.
They bypassed romance like eels sliding to ceremony,
heritage lamps lit; and silvery-haired moomas
brooming the yard for the harvest of grandchildren.
The patacake she'd oil, spread & turn pretty much
anytime he liked. Comrade, what else was there?
what more?
Years of tribe agitation; seasons of theatre in the mouth;
late afternoons when the seawall knows the ocean of bent
back riders (puffed amateurs, ghost overseers) winds up ashore.
Over and over how we dig up &
bury comfort shrouds of the past. The old bulbs.
Two hours past midnight. Two cars race by, windows tinted,
hounds for some snatched pleasure kill
or drug letting in villages back dammed.
And every time the power fail, frighten tighten she belly,
"You lock the door?"
See the ladybird۞ nesting under him?
The feeling you get waking up wedged in this niche!
What's that? There's fear & life rot all over the world?
– W.W.
NO RETURN:
what we might have been is
the ghost of a chance: now
we are virgin ghosts
desire would pervert. Fate
is no master but
desire itself, a blank
to scrawl a burden on
or one to keep
erased.
(from "Thief With Leaf" by Brian Chan)
LOVESONG
Whenever it's raining at midnight
I'll be taking a walk and towards you.
It's your coat I'll be wearing when I must go back home.
Everywhere young men are paid to slam
bullets into one another's bodies
but this can't stop two souls from containing each other.
People are still dying in hunger
but somehow I keep enjoying these grapes
and bergamot tea with you at 2 in the morning.
From now on 2 a.m. is the time
I'll be knocking on the door of your dreams
to make you burn the butter for the next day's omelette.
Before the clouds dry up, let us go
walking in a different town of our own.
Wherever we stop to eat, we'll insist on plum wine.
Dream this town whenever we must meet
as mutual angels full of voice and tears.
Wherever we walk, the moon will keep her eye on us.
I kiss the back of your neck before
it fades with you down your road without me.
The shifting cloud mirroring your steps is your best friend.
(from "Fabula Rasa" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 