The Crucible
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
the communion
of koudmen:
a ritual she did not
bouyon right.
I lead her from
her four-square kitchen
back to the muddy green
that tragic front
where we fought;
bwaden tea for blood,
coconut water souring
our fear to bile.
That deadly front
where now hibiscus flourish
atop quiet carcasses.
I explain:
We no longer need
tablespoons or ounces here.
Our only measurement
is our measured silence…
I bid her:
Dig. Feel deep
for the raw, rank mud.
Knead. Do not ask
for water, flour
this or that
muscle memory
must guide us now.
So, take
what is created,
place into chodyè
atop coal pot,
into your own
timeless crucible
of ritual and coal
and clay.
Ensure it is hot
as lava
so your soul discerns
the screeching cries
of your great-grandmother,
burnt like bagasse
after her best harvest.
Allow her peeling hands
to burn in yours,
sin and sacrifice entwined
into ancestral light
revealing woman, breasts,
parched from suckling thin children;
her man, beating
ancestral battle cries
out of a drum
hunger
hunger
hunger.
Be brave.
Fix your eyes
on this bouyon
history serves you
even if your eyeballs melt
and your hair falls
to the muddied,
studied earth.
Taste this bouyon
history makes of you.
Let it scald
like bitter tea.
Let it reform and
recommit your tongue.
Taste and remember
our wars already won.