Anchors caught open^mouth at the plate could
attract a skill set o' ji^zhi chop sticks | or palms
under vests, henna still drying – which a long
ago Sahib chest would dismiss as ‘perfectly frightful’.
\ Can we move now? yard holding
sar’wrap sweepers hide . midriff prithi^lucky so
far eluding packs of village cocks ‘n’ pits.
*
\ Conceive : tubes tied, away 'n' gone;
shore found What then ? huddle separate, find
a vein . follow billboard balance beaming eyes.
Here no sirens, missile strikes sigh one ! two
say Nuit Nuit, sleep tight | morning knees to prayer
knocking There, now.
*
/ Plot boilers of flight risk can’t hush
our parliament of night crickets | hill climbs
from the faith in stray controllers need all the air
we can’t leave.
For now what wing metaphors persist ? ‘ruction
over spirit heating | haze as days thin faster
into years . blood we host testing.
– W.W.
YUH RAP SO (2.5)
Now he lay back, one arm under his head in
His couvade-hammock under the shed outside
His hut – which he still sometimes called his quarters
In perverse nostalgia for the killing years
He had wasted in His Majesty’s army
As a lame apology for a padré
Or godsbody gofering around death-beds
To hear regrets + curses from those he blessed,
Realising how ungenerous he was
(from “Raponani” by Brian Chan, 2023)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 