for Alison K.
Back then few could imagine how planes refuelled
in the sky; everything had to be grounded : ambition
like car engines switched off while someone with a wipe
rag checked your gradient, and mongoose village eyes
assessed Atlantic storm marks ~ day break egret strollings.
June afternoon's green house, the Morne deck view : sun
ironed leaves seemed wearable ~ the wind patient like brides
maids waiting for turbulence to toss high sigh . unzip
in amber sky.
We could make out just below the rusted galvanize roofs
of Placide Valley . history was hardly kind to shell drawn
island turtles on haunch lime.
Our smiles wheel feeling about intended lift as if already air
sworn ~ long felt latitude lines known ~ already there!
before "solar" like "audacity" coined clearance for so long
on one leg standing . elections coming.
Lock unlock would set the hand that chance tapped our
crouched shoulders > the open will fill mission.
Indigine news? like close shave fears click! peel
away as fin blades gleaming path shear clear
cross overcloud burst range.
Our miles flamingo forming :
as North-South plains dry burn again
as East-West wing tips stretch again
Ends up . gone the blue through :
– W.W.
CONVERSATION
When in silence alone I walk on
the winter city's hard
concrete going nowhere, my knees start
to needle me with their whispered screams.
Now as beside me you walk above
words of hot stone your heart
translates to feather cloud, water wing,
stone light, I feel no pain but the wave
of love rising and falling along
the seashore of our breath
out of whose spine sprouts our wall-less house,
all windows and doors, of shining speech.
(from "Scratches On The Air" by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 