third world views

for me

no empty bagasse pages

of their lies

no hammered voices

falsetto smooth

covering war cries

but

the salt sea spray

of an island's tears

that burn me

acid

and the wind

the wind that sings in echoes of their bombs

the wind that sings contralto tremors

of their bombs

would that nutmeg

choke their obeah

and the dust of cinnamon

lift their prints

as evidence

for babes now growing

in an island's belly

how third world my blues

of oceans bending backwards

to make ends meet

of mountains rising up to misty tears

of mothers

patching pieces of sky

to cover the winded bellies

of their babies cry

how third world my blues