for Sandra L. and Alison K.
I
When they returned like seamen from trawler toil – with Hons.
tales of head winds cold, tastes acquired (for excellent wines,
say) – a village heart just had to have one. Indra snagged
hers the night he spilled his drink; she fussed with napkins,
touched a purple stain, jamoon desire. (Estranging logic
strings our castnets and dreams, shaghopper.)
Dry walls and ankle bells could mute nightie passion,
sheets smiling. Indra learned to furrow the plough
place lips up loading the plough man – Flag?
what easy virtue honour shame? when a girl
bone sensors high alert! moves out wants
in for the pound?
After the first child she tired, wait nah, he picked on her
house care 'not geisha', politique oblige leaving her out; for
each shed tear a name. Rivuleting through hot irons heart blisters
she'd gather down stream from his singlet & silence; bhaji boil,
done.
II
Indra shaped out the day the alter hero sailed in – an ecofriendly
Canadian on assignment, mast head stiffened by how the races
seemed to get along; proof of which he took back. (Love conquers,
the wharf dwarfs the ship; take a cruise, you'll see, bloghopper.)
In his suburb docked away seems now she's doing just fine;
a second child's come along plus wardrobe for seasons
leaf raking the attic and Omigod! headlights on deer.
Ok, flag wavers, prance: bare navel gaming the other;
the tribe betrayed; cow shedding all along.
Up wining wings expecting gyurl with braids? grip comfort
while you wait. World traveled miles make nest ballooning
news; for canefield stems chic fodder, Vedic kokers embittering
fuse. Incoming over soon, packed camel heart.
– W.W.
WE MEET,
embrace and then I can but lean
in silence towards you like a bough full
of fruits listening for the voice of the earth-
locked roots that feed it: you and I are of
the same tree of disinterested passion,
ardour well-behaved 'as a guide or mode
of hope' that will not call its name for fear
of so slackening the rope of balance taut
between not enough and too much, the path
of light above the circus-sand sprouting
dry grooved totems to the gods of routine
that promise plastic fruits and cowards' nets
of if for when (as we fear, so we must)
we fall.
(from "Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 