After Megan Fernandes
Sometimes, I could see Daddy,
liming along the sea walls of Trini
racing in the hills between the metal shacks
clothed under a black blanket dotted
with diamonds holding wishes of England
whispered from thick black lips.
I’ve been waiting on Summer like a promise.
Sweating under breasts, I’m reluctant to cross
over the threshold, the weight of this black body
offending everybody and including me.
Some days, I imagine silver light shed
along the shoreline. Probing sand eels
leaving spiralling piles of sand and shit.
Grace is not something I wear. Except
one time after pulling myself together again in
Iceland’s otherworldly landscape.
Daddy kept his island parcelled in fur, under
the bed, never to drift out and cocoon me in home.
At midlife crisis, I’m knee-deep in this man-made
forest, serpents for hair, munching waxcaps, knowing
it’s not wise, but mesmerised by their ruby rubber
ness, knowing there’s no escape looking in the mirror