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There's a bit too much milk
in the chocolate here. 
They don't understand when
I say cacao just
how deep from within me
the sound of it comes. 
They don't know what its like
to put a spot of
darkness on their tongues
and just let it sit there
melting...for...hours. 
Instead they say things like
"Boy, da girl rel sweet. 
For a negro girl." 
Sugar is poison and
cocoa butter makes
all dark choc'late smoother. 

All they taste here
is so much bitterness.

Tinder Box

By all means;
kiss me tinderly, mother-bird.
for too long now there's been
a tree growing in me
so thirsty for last season's rain
that its leaves are all yellowed
and its boughs are growing withered.
Place your scavenged twigs
into its deepest crooks.
Weave them loosely as you like.
Line them with fruit peels
and fragrant petals.
Make a nest for yourself
just here
where the wind can push all it likes.
You'll be comfortably preening your feathers
through most every storm.

And should some day an hurricane blow,
one of those cleansing squalls
who's winds and rains
make the ground into porridge
and uproot that dry old tree;
then I'll cleave to the heart
of the fallen trunk
and from the wood there I'll make a box
where I can place what's left of
     --your gathered twigs
     --your fragrant petals
     --your cherished fruit peels.
A box where I can keep
your tinder kisses.

     Have I ever told you
     how much your touch is like
     striking flint?

Kevin

(Inspired by ToTO's Catch a Fire prompts for June 2011)

When I was a boy he had
not hands but
cords of muscle,
sinew, tendons,
richly vibrating strings of flesh
filled with liquid-fire spirit
brimming at the eyes.
Even saw it spill out once
when they wouldn't let him hold his son.

He was the fire in our home.
The uncontrollable element
in our family's Feng Shui.
Made winter times bearable,
shielded us against tedium and cold
just from the sound of
     --Hip-Hop blaring;
just from the sound of
     --maniacal laughter;
just from the sounds of
     --the outrageous things he would say. 
Other times, he was just
a fire in our house
and it would break my grandmother's heart
just to think of putting
her youngest son out.

Saw him shave his head once
in the bathroom mirror
between rounds of Tekken.
Saw him give me a look
that was all confusion and anger.
"You scared?  Why you scared?"
Saw it spill out more than once.
Saw him cover from view,
too late,
a mound of Cocaine
the size of his hustle.

Heard a rumour he was dead.
Heard a rumour he was living
somewhere in Mexico or
Guatemala or
some place he had no business being.
Heard him say he hated the medication.
Heard he was taking up meditation
but only ever saw him staring
out a dirty window
on the wrong side of the bed.
That's not Zen.
That's Benzodiazepine.

"That's not how life works",
Hear my mother say when
he showed up to her office
smelling like three weeks on the street
And ready for whatever job she had.
Heard his cousin tell him
"Look, even my dog have to bark to eat."

Now that I'm a man with
not hands but
cords of muscle,
sinew, tendons,
quietly vibrating strings of flesh
brimming with spirit
like so much smoke,
sometimes you can see it
just at the eyes
when I dream of
what it would be like
to not rely on rumours,
but to have him close
without his fire dampened,
but with a mended spirit
and a heart the size and shape
that his son must be by now.

Twelve and Nine: Part 3

Wally's mother gave him twelve dollars. She had him count it three times. A five; a two, two dollar coins, and four shillin. 'I could have di shillin?' he asked each time he finished counting, each time interrupting her grocery list. He knew it by heart by now though. It was the same thing every Saturday: Beans, flour, rice. She didn't tell him but he knew when he came back there'd already be a dead chicken on the table. It would be one of the chickens they let roam in the alleys. It would also probably be one of the ones he'd named, which was why he was going to the shop now, while she wring its neck. Eating his pets didn't bother him so much when he couldn't recognize them anymore. Once, though, his mother had made the mistake of scooping up a peel-neck fowl and dispatching it right in front of Wally. The boy cried for days.

“Yuh musn't tink ih soffy-soffy.” Explained Miss Pearl. She baked bread on Sundays and Wally's mother would always bring back a few loaves in exchange for some eggs, and some motherly advice. “The things dat po lee bwai done sih at such a young age? All the violence around here, and his father...Chile just feel good he still have some kinda consideration for gods creatures, yerr?” It was with this in mind that Wally's mother always included the four quarters. She didn't say it, but Wally set off for the shop every Saturday, knowing they were for him.

Jun-Jun knew where it was hidden. He'd seen it taken from its hiding spot and put back there countless times. It wasn't his. He didn't bother asking for it, he just took it. It was the same thing, every time. The boys would find him in front of the shop when they'd come to buy their papers. He'd have just managed to scrape up enough coins for something to eat when they'd hold him by the back of the neck and rifle through his pockets. And the only reason they got away with it was because they were older than him. Bigger. Closer to being called men. But Jun-Jun was already a man. They couldn't just disrespect him like that, just because they said they were from 'Back-a-alley' didn't mean they owned the damn place. They'd slap his face and cuff his head, but he wouldn't cry. He was a man. They had to respect him. He tucked it in his waist, under his shirt, and the weight of it made the back of his pants droop. They'd have to respect him.

Wally had the flour in its own bag hanging off the left side of the handlebars. He had the rice and the beans together in a bag hanging off the right side of the handlebars. He had seventy five cents worth of sweets overflowing his pockets and a long pink ideal hanging from his mouth. He was preparing himself in his head, getting ready to right himself on the two wheels and slowly start pedaling. The boys came up from behind him, walking in wide legged gates despite their baggy, sagging pants. As they walked past him, one on either side, one of them laughed. The other called out to him. “Peely-Batty-Pauly-Wally!” Wally smiled. The ideal dropped out of his mouth. He bent to pick it up.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! That's what it sounded like. That and the sound of scuffling feet. Of sudden, frantic screaming from the shop just behind them. There was the popping and then there was the sound of an entire neighborhood in panic. In uproar. There was the sound of running, then stumbling, then falling. The boys from Back-a-alley didn't even know what hit them. They didn't even see the shooter. They heard the pops and their brains instinctively told their feet 'Flee!' They only got a few yards before their lungs gurgled and spurted blood. Their hearts said 'No more. No more. No.' There were the pops, and then there was the sound of plastic bags hitting the ground, weighed down by so many pounds of flour, beans, and rice. There was the sound of a bicycle falling, spokes and pedals clattering. Chain rattling. Then there were the same sounds in reverse as Jun Jun snatched up the bike. He walked with it a few yards before getting on, and even then he pedaled slowly. Perhaps he was waiting for the sound of respect. The respect he deserved. It sounded like people screaming. It sounded like a little girl running through back alleys. Running to give a mother even more bad news. Wally was 12. Jun-Jun was 9.

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.