for Victor Davson
The pale young man who came first, a drain cleaner,
went to work in the basement; nothing mattered but
his snake machine, a quiet efficiency (his father:
disappointed? proud?) eye courtesy on exit.
The second stranger, a problem solver, wore a Jah
Jah tam and made this poem wait in the bath tub
while he changed the meter
so it measured each swollen syllable and drip.
Island accents tease hard fibers out. Soon – stopping
to show – he opened his job portfolio: love water
from I was a boy; then as apprentice pipe fitter,
bringing privilege to standpipe users, Yes I.
When him beach up North him join the Redeemer kno seh
the Water Authority: twenty years now them never let I go
while native bredren success bound were losing
ground to race ways and recession. (EU portals open/closed.)
Some back home skills in body bags of water
prove winners anywhere – you think?
child minding, dough kneading; tend salvation herb;
river roots & pride > smart swimming, Yu see't?
-W.W.
LONSTEIN'S CONVENTION
A washer of the dead is what I am:
I refuse to embalm or embellish.
I give you back these bags as they are – bald
or hairy, purple or pink. Unimpressed,
I peel away their fashionable frills
of lace or blood or creed. But after
I've done washing away their dead serious
superstitions and myths oozing like pus,
the tongue remains their most active organ.
And for every corpse I lay out naked,
there's some mother waiting to have it dressed
and spruced up for a cocktail memorial.
Hopeless. But as I say, I wash, that's all.
(from "Thief With Leaf" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 