Let me tell you I had to fight a war for us. If you were there to witness your eyes would roll back in your skull so you could watch your mind implode. Your very soul would simmer to a soundless boil because of what she did: her sin against

An orange sun dances in the sky  like Eden’s sly serpent  and your bulging ape-eyes  are glued to your lover  like a dog drooling for low-hanging meat. The waves - shh - hush the West Coast. On your bare knees, Saint Lucia possesses you.  You caress Lover’s body,

Feel sand between your toes, sit, wait; Peace is coming. You are the shore the waves are here to cleanse - they erode worried shackles, deposit stones  and shells - scattered pieces of new hope. Assort them: Carve your reflection into the sand with them - forget sandcastles, that’s

You follow ripe bougainvillaea trellis down thorny paths; they cut first your conscience, then your flesh: this is absolution. A black woman, rocking herself between life and death. After a sigh revealing cheeks caving into cheekbones, she holds you: join her in song, learn the song you and  your upright

It’s hardly dawn and you forget the English at home. Blue jeans, white shirt, an expectant stomach, you leave: today is koudmen. The day opens with cocoa tea and  rock-hard bakes. The men regale each other with stories of cock-fights, snakes from Anse La Raye, brushes with death  and

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Not long after church bells sound and  cynical mothers scurry to morning Mass, the yard fowls come out of hiding. Motors are a ghetto’s rooster -  my suburban brother doesn’t know the cries of truant church-boys, homeschooled surgeons operating on the organs of makeshift cars. Neither does he

I - Before the fall Midday on a Friday is loud and  the park seems to lose its serenity. The scent of dried urine betrays a man's dominance.  Somewhere, pigeons colonise a marble seat, spreading their culture of strewn, wet faeces. I search for another seat.  Flowers: zinnias,

I You leave the North and Saint Lucia tries to kill you. The Barre de l’Isle is church, the bamboos are priests; they rub together and hum hosannas. The cliffs are strategic  and death is certain, but you are chosen. You drive through the lacerations and soon come upon

When pigs and cows become counterfeit roosters,  and Aunt whatever-her-name-is - it doesn’t matter - she’s sent a barrel, Christmas is here. Mum strips her house bare and  never-before-seen curtains are hoisted; Nen outs her new tablecloths: wooden castles more elaborate than a mother’s pride. Contemporary barter:

I fasten my tie in the reflection and my mother hollers what is her anthem now. The mirror breaks - and with it, the adopted whiteness. The shards are an archipelago: small, diverse, and they whisper a story. They whisper it in creoles - the Queen’s English liberated their