Push your body

Of a woman I once knew:

she had mapped out the grid of Georgetown

in a mind suffused with memories of miscegenation,

drove a bus route sometimes

and like a human GPS

she would drive her beat up car pretty much everywhere

even in lanes overrun with those peddling

what she felt were cheap Chinee things

and women selling sapodilla

while she sucked her teeth at coolie boys

calling her sweetheart

while selling her nothing.

In those places there were no water lilies

And Homestretch avenue was still the prettiest road

And on days when she was with me

I tried to navigate

those narrow lanes

lined by bodies melting in the Caribbean sun

and rasta men around tibisiri baskets,

where Chutney was something you listened to

while it swirled around mummified caiman

smiling even in death for tourists.

she could sense my dithering,

anxious that I was,

not to mulch the crowd under my wheels.

So she grafted me to the metal beast;

Davina, it’s alrite na, push ya baady, push ya baady …

Such fine encouragement,

I felt invincible as I smiled on the narrowest road

# For a dear friend from Georgetown

Rain canvas …

A million shimmering crystals could not replicate the canvas of rain,

for the rain alone can colour your spirit

and you can wear it on your coat, your skirts, even your scarf that is now soggy

but diamonds you need to store in a safe

then wear them to dinner where there are others like you

and it’s pleasing, that social function

for you smile and laugh and put on acceptable faces which in turn elevates your spirit

then what is it about rain and damp and cloudy skies that conspire together so

they don’t seem to need an invitation into your circumstance

especially when you aren’t dressed for the occasion

they create for you a phantasmagoria of turbulence

where you feel the swell of tidal overwhelm

the precipitation of sorrow

the comfort of petrichor

abandoned by the sun

the aroma of a hot tea

random thoughts of some obscure poet in the eighteenth century

speaking of unfamiliar things

you complain about the weather as if it were some relative you grouse about

everything is wet

some places look drier than wet

the plants watered usually with chlorinated water seem so happy

like the dog that shakes off her drenched fur

then there are voices of childhood

that float along as if in an impromptu performance

much to your surprise

for you never thought of them

but they thought of you

Ah, the rain, a billion shimmering raindrops and I can wear them whichever way I please

.

.

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Ah the rain and all it can mean. The rain is always fertile ground for poetry.