"Fu tru a libi faya / "Truly, life must be
f ' wi masra Gado" / tough for the Lord."
̶ Johanna Schouten-Elsenhout, "Virtue"
Vowed they would fix it, the flat tired nation, with memory
wound stitched, fiefdom pulp beats. Now fine tempers
bruise under their skin pecking orders, timers for youth
oven access; the belt loose No, please! shielding.
No lift tools,
stems wait wilt. What foot stool custom helped them up
there, coin chests saddled upon you?
Dot titles sharpening names, blade fall, the old imperial drum
role; things that matter less or more ̶ brace to jump the track
rust of grail service.
The wage estate's in shambles. Strip
gangs burn cane reeds tender on strike dates. I run
with you I clear ash swirling air strips for you.
Their frog throats swell, low copy high swallow.
Here's a path
for unexploded shells: spear tip the crab fist pounding
up through mud; seize the scuttled shore before the tide plays
out and longing dried in the sand holds, in the belly pincers.
Through thread veins, breath not ceding, run our conspiracy
file ̶ did the barrels shipped back make it past the organ
swellers? inside you tossed on beds of river weeping?
Paddle, glide
like Amerindian; take for your parting prow this hand,
our midnight chart through forest quiet.
I sing paint dream you ̶ You there, stay the course! ̶
I follow ways you stream, you swat the Admin's crevice fingers.
I wait with ointments, with oxygen tent, Enter keys.
On heart shelves, our expectations lined up,
I reach
and dust spines of raptures chiming; not a grain slips by,
Oh those glassed hours.
-W.W.
ATTRACTING A BRIGHT ANGEL
with the hint
of a horn to a quiet song, I know
you at once, your body all wings of light
lifted by its own music's waves of sure
breathing, yet hovering
between magnets of recognition and routine,
desire and duty, ah-yes! and oh-well,
your smile a mask of baffled power,
of your admission of now-or-never,
a chance you first deny through the exit
to never, before turning back to charge
our one heart's battery, your eyes' light over-
flowing its chalice towards my hunger
to be graced by the wingtips of your breath.
(from "The Gift Of Screws" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 