Racism in Belize

Its a lot like beans
cooking on a Sunday morning
in the biggest pot
in the kitchen
to be eaten Sunday Night
and all of Monday
and maybe even Tuesday
or Wednesday
if you can keep it fresh,
or for the rest of the week even,
if you know how to do it right. 
Its not just beans,
but rice and beans. 
Refried beans. 
Scrumptious egg and ham,
and some beans on the side
just so you know its there. 
Fried jacks or toast
smeared with beans,
or stuffed,
depending on how much of it
you intend to swallow.

And you don't even have to see the steam
jetting out of the pressure cooker
to know that there's a pot bubbling. 
You can tell,
sometimes even in dreams,
sometimes the very moment that
your eyes are opened to the real world,
or as the boys who hang out
under the house would say:
'Stop Sleep Up.' 
You can tell
by the invisible aroma
all around you. 
You can tell
by how it makes even
the bedroom sanctuary
that much hotter. 
You can tell
because no one wants
to be in the kitchen right now. 
Even the sister at the pipe outside
would rather scrape her knuckles
on the scrubbing board
than use the fancy new washer
mama get for dollar down
and deal with that heat. 
"It wash better anyway",
she says "And ih nuh bruk down
as often as da third-world piece a ting
so and so in deh."

And its happening. 
Even when faamly come visit
from New York or LA
and stand at the back door
fanning themselves,
too scared to go wander the street outside
and too naive to know why
the heat is so hot;
its happening. 
Its happening in houses where
the beans are red and shaped like kidneys. 
Its happening in houses where
the pots are filled with pintos and culantro. 
Happening in houses where
fat butterbeans melt enough to be ladled
over perogies. 
In houses where
the split peas get nice and thick,
and the pig tail meat falls
right off the bone. 
Where black beans stew in one pot
and bamboo shoots steam in another. 
The Secret to Good Chili
is a fresh jalapeno
(not the canned stuff)
and a tablespoon of Sharps.