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Darkness wears this part of the world with shadow
& there is the patter of water on the tarred road outside. I pick my phone & stride through the memories in photos & then your portrait pops up at the last few slides The one where you carved your face into an image Of smiles like a sculptor & it held my gaze. Like glue to paper. It’s been a year after. The day the flower sprouting In the soil of our hearts died. & I died with it too. You had asked us to see. The meet morphed into the aftermath of a knife through meat— caressing The thread that held us with a blade. Found my voice under waves of death
Decaying, the chorus thinned to an anthem only mother's bear Everything licks out, Cries became murmurs of what filled lands green Fleshy screams Bloody whimpers Fields sugared in Sunday gospel Hear their cries their lord Open up your ears deaf lord South Jamaica, Mine and my mother’s and my mother’s mother’s grave, Barren land stretch for miles Full of symbols of decay and love, Water browned where they’ve washed their hands And tried their hands at purity Absolute. Absalom. Back then we were savages
back then we worshipped the moon as it was constant in its inconsistencies of shape and wordless in complaint of inadequacy. Winters were untameable so we rode glaciers to new lands preserved below fresh islands birthed hot and steaming from fire cooled sea. They say all angels have soft skin
And wings made of white They say they tread lightly And spin gold through the mere sound of their voice But they don’t tell you About the tearing of the flesh when the wings come How you never know how dark blood really is until it is all over your hands They wanted me to be soft, to be vulnerable But look how much that has taken from me Her mind too escaped to the green fields.
When the sun tingled her delicate skin, And her Ma’s clay-burned hands Were the only things that could heal. She remembered the cold winds of Spring– Sharp and essential. Like her Ma’s stern face, Or her Baba’s hands of metal. She dreamed of magic carpets and glossy mangoes, No more slippery stairs or crowded windows. But as she bundled her whole life in bandages, And felt the wet dirt Beneath her feet, Maybe the soiled boxes weren’t the Only damaged packages. Risen from a blood-stained sea, a maiden broke through the foam-coated waves.
She took her first breath. Pain sliced through her body as air filled her lungs, and she released a cry that shook the very heavens. Like a child unleashed from its mother's womb. Violent and desperate. Saltwater flooded her mouth, silencing her. Choking, she fought the waves that began to drag her from her birthplace. The force of the currents weakened her resistance to the point where fighting was useless. The waves, no longer daunting, lulled her into a sublime stillness, cradling her until she washed up on pearly shores. Time passed slowly as she laid there. Unmoving, like a fish stuck on the scorching sands that turned her frail skin pink and blistered. Eventually, she took her second breath. She tasted the salty waters on her tongue, and something stale, and coppery. Strands of her golden hair, infused with fire from the burning sun, clung to her flushed face. A deep nothingness echoed in her mind for each breath she took, dark and forlorn, until golden heat began to surge through her veins—divine ichor pulsating within her marbled heart. Did you know Persephone plucked
those damn pomegranate seeds- all on her own. Poor girl so desperate for some sweet, scouring nails into arteries for teeny red gems. The history of all hitherto existing society
Is the history of women and the other one Women who weld the world sitting on stools And the other one who spoils it sitting on thrones The female who is feline in heart And the other one who wears a lion face Women who are meek , responsible and considerate And the other one, proud, arrogant and aggressive Women who are mothers by role And the other one, a father by biology Women, whom in matrimony heed to social instincts And the other one who in matrimony prefer animal instincts In history, a haunting narrative unfurls – a tale of women unjustly branded as witches. These
women, accused with unsettling ease of dabbling in the mystical arts and harboring powers beyond the human realm, found themselves ensnared within a complex tapestry of fear, superstition, and power dynamics. Their bond with the natural world and its enigmatic wonders set them apart. In moonlit clearings, they would dance with abandon, their voices intertwining in ethereal harmonies, defiantly casting aside the norms that society sought to bind them with. Yet, these women, enigmatic and misunderstood, were fated to confront trials that bore no resemblance to justice. Accusations of malevolent sorcery and dark enchantments tore them from their lives. They were shackled, imprisoned, and, in some heart-wrenching instances, led to the gallows. Their cries for understanding echoed through the corridors of time, unheard by those whose duty it was to shield them. You called me brave
and I smiled to myself, thrilled at the thought of some self of mine as a protector wielding a bow, all grace. I stood with my feet apart clawed my way up out of myself chills spread like flames over my shoulders and faced this straight on. I felt this infinite feeling in the last second, elated nerves running held tight to the fear in my heart. I traded every weapon for a shield and started down the mountainside when the clouds give way to sky and stars shake off their bright disguises I hope you can see them. |
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