Not envy we envy the cliff sheer drop, the glass tower dive,
the bridge that spans decoupled cravings or whale tides
unembraceable.
Is just – apart from bands and bandits –
we like to leave, not fall shoot jump.
Few islanders stage the debunching show ̶ last stand on a ledge
as watchers point or talk for inches grab at sleeve phone
fame; and one womb flat in disbelief recalls how nipples
swollen in support placenta fluids swished.
There is the sea ̶ its dread head home stretch for horizon
squints; cupped coast line candles for long memory holds; illusion
heals. Not one soul here would venture leave the puzzle of a topless
bobbing boat (reported stolen) with "Jesus Saves" fish oars.
True islanders prefer a self clean fire burn! straight like rum
hatch down ̶ what scours breast plate stain and tears at loss
fault stuff that silk our spirit cells in weeds.
The nerve to count stop in ferment
grape years less seed . gap centuries less home.
A bush burning summing
up, you could say: Exit breath on own site terms.
No love late bells no message fat claim
chance of reparation never mind what conch shells backing bone
collectors say.
Morn fortunes break wait, night star clusters yes. Light
you see.
– W.W.
THE TREE MAN'S COMING WINTER
The white throats of death circle
above my head, calling warning
drawing the limits of my days.
The wind keeps making a drum
of my skin, and flutes and rattles
of my bones: funeral music,
dumb sadness that keeps my heart
pulping in the sun, regardless
yet careful, ruthlessly tender.
It's a cloak against the wind,
this peace of knowing soon it will
blow every last dried leaf nowhere.
This is the only one of twelve
voices the wind finds, leaves in me.
All I shed, rehearsing axes.
(from "Thief With Leaf" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 