Christmas
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: a few hands of fig
for some of the neighbour’s pork.
Beef sizzles for two hours - a taunting melody with its
promise of taste better than any mirth, or gold,
or frankincense. It is home-cooked and
marinated in thyme and spice: what does Jesus know?
But Mum still whispers “$50 for that?! Mwen menm”
A church bell signals midnight mass;
everyone comes. Matriarchs come with umbrella-like
chapeaux; wearing one good dress. The others are
for weddings. Marriage is contagious this time of year.
Even the vagabonds model red and white in their
bleached suits. They don’t enter the church though -
Dewar’s with coke beckon from Miss So-and so’s
corner shanty; curfew is non-existent.
