What are you up to? – she snapped, stroking her belly, as if
To underline the inaptness of my uppityness
Ignoring her touch-me-not righteousness, I asked now if
She was not Stew’s partner Radica – or was it Mona?
At once she shed her heated mask and put on a cool smile
Whose insincerity was so awe-inspiring, i knew
I was already half-dissolved by the careless acid
Of confident beauty only shrewd pregnant mothers leak.
It's the opportunistic intelligence of certain
Women which drew me to them like a bee to the nectar
Of shy flowers (for, yes, it is the shyest of soul-plants
That sprout their essence-seeds into the rarest person-blooms),
Else like a fly to an open wound over which honey
Has been poured to both seal off the gash and speed its healing:
The fly for his part can't divide the blood from the honey
^
But Mona was so lovely-looking,
Not only was i ‘smitten’, but it seemed ungracious not
To fall with her apple, sorry, that’s the best i can do:
I can speak love but can’t write it, can’t prove it in writing.
I about-turned and followed Radica back to the art
And tried to see the pictures through her sentimental gaze
(The most sharp-witted people can adore the blandest shite)
But i was more concerned about her pregnancy-arcked back
Which had to hurt from all that bearing of watery weight.
Waddling with feet spread wide, and sliding around akimbo,
She seemed at once a seasoned sailor and a frail sailboat
Adrift beyond a hint of harbour on a windless day
– Though i might have before thought her more a storm-proof liner
Had Stew then proven her sardine-can-opener iceberg?
(from “fatima solagua arterra’s nudes” by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 