West India

by Barbara Jones

Topics: Colonialism, Magic, People, Poetry, Survival

what can i say

of my people

ebony on ivory

walls of clime

hang green

upon the

lizards of

the sun and

shines the

cinnamon

zephyr from

the coral

knives of seas.

cantonese

from the punjab

yoruba

of the thames

benin bronze

gleaming in

a matador’s

prized ear

to the champs elysee

of caribs

and arawaks

christopher

you betrayed

my ancestors

and the foetuses

of their

civilization.

weep weep

into the

mediterranean

sighing limp

over the niger

where the blue

nile sees no

apparitions

and hears

not the white

path winding

on the white

path winding

on the razors

blunt edge

of a moving history

forbids me

to hate

your castin tetted

pleas for forgiveness.

fleur de lis

drenced in

blood

plantations

of suspended

souls flv

and leap

into

armadas

teutonic

lions roar

devouring

the droppings

of the niger

and the

matador

sw1nqs

on the

fleur de lis

christopher

you betrayed

my ancestors

what then

can i say

for my people.

i can say

distilled

in a

conquistador’s

thimble from

black blood

in the mango

wisdom of

coniucius

cauldroned

with the

fires of

krishna

the palm trees

now view

venus and jupiter

under the

chimneys

which float

across the

bay into

sticks of sugarcane

and the drums

beat out the

witches brew

of my

people