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

Decay, the colour of paint

Like still life, 

deep inside

a tibisiri basket,

lay a sad soft lime 


in powdery bloom.



now by soft grey

A moles breath 

or a sweet innocence…


on the colour chart 

of wall paints


this real life

organic putrescence.

The  tomatoes too

on the kitchen counter,

beating heart 

and ravishing red

in an earlier time,

mouldy grey 

cheating heart now.

Ah yes, 

the wilting chives,

in a cellar

that promised 

to keep them fresh,

has now 

painted them 

from bunker hill green 

into a sad salamander 




I was at the big box store that sells paints and was absolutely enthralled by the names of the shades. It was a poetic exercise situated in the mundane. There is beauty in everything, even at the box store.