Away
to the east of the isle where the median swells
and they gut the fish,
the wharf men sing.
And beat the water,
beat the water so.
We watch them shift from the time-worn dance to the heated clash.
Our sisters pray to raise us for better men.
On meridian ground,
the half-breeds and the kids in bloom,
drain the water from the room,
fill it up again.
On meridian ground,
the half-breeds and the kids in bloom.
My auntie died in a one-room house on the top road
with the candles cold and a smile upon her face.
We run inside and place our kites by her bed frame.
She surges higher,
the hills and the gullies fall.
We swim out under the ships and flirt with pain like a mistress,
like the hemlock blade
that bathes in the boiling sea.
What a fool,
what a fool can I be?
On meridian ground,
the half-breeds and the kids in bloom,
drain the water from the room,
fill it up again.
On meridian ground,
the half-breeds and the kids in bloom.
Midway through the hour,
we send our blighted tongues to rest.
Twin
babies
sick and dispossessed.
On meridian ground,
the half-breeds and the kids in bloom,
drain the water from the room,
fill it up again.
On meridian ground,
the half-breeds and the kids in bloom,
drain the water from the room again.
Again.
Again.