At Dover Raceway

The sign and then the marl
part of a procession
witnessed on either side
by chariots
not allowed to race,
mere conveyors
of the throng converging.
A pass and then to the overpass
bodies in concert
seekers homing in on the
viewing point of choice
trackside, dutchie in hand
or status lounge
food and drink unlimited
settling for the start.
The music then the voice
deejay and commentator in tango
rhythm and dance
news stream and humour
sponsors’ names spouting and branding
in the in-between
until the cars line up
names and stats arcing through the buzz
excitement gathering like congregants
for worship.
The flag and then the charge
black and white blurred
against the whiz of passing colour
total engine red unbeatable
blue and yellow gore challenging
Chen in white
coming back to win
Chen in black: emergent victor
drifting to applause
‘til it starts again
with breaths bated, scanning eyes
roars and moans
chased with vodka, rum, and turbo.

I Want to Scull

I want to scull
but the boats are broken
and there is no money
to make them whole again.
They lie face down on racks
paint work flaky like sunburnt skin,
cobwebs and dust
clothing them unchecked
in a cage by Morgan’s Harbour.
I see them there each time I pass
pulling off the road to stand
as though visiting a gravestone;
remembering
the sleek grace with which they lived
on Saturday mornings before dawn
slicing through the seas
that touch Port Royal
eight sculls pulling, flipping, and rising
in tandem
and that spill that we took
by the mangroves
limbs treading water while bailing water
until we could climb back in,
row back to a pebbly shore,
and smile ruefully
at our waiting coach.
Each time I drive towards the Palisadoes
I remember how much
I want to scull
to feel the waking sun
draw sweat from my arms
as we pull those sculls in tandem
through the seas that touch Port Royal
gulls watching overhead
and a manatee from below.

Becoming Wisdom

I.

I once loved a man named Broken
who lived with his family of fears
in a granite house
feeding on bitter roots
seasoned with rage.
He drew me in with songs of pain.
I held him to my bosom.
His head was too heavy.
I touched his amber skin.
It singed my fingers.
I kissed the tears from his face.
They poisoned me.
I smiled to disarm him.
He pierced me with his sword.

II.

So I ran to the caves
that are lapped by the sea
and watched my blood seep out
to tinge the water.
I had gone to give.
I had meant to heal
and was almost consumed
I, now, the Woman called Wounded.
But my heart still beats.
Hope becomes my restorer.
Sister Love comforts me
and Insight alights on my shoulder.
My wounds turn to scars
and I rise again,
re-christened the Woman called Wisdom.

III.

I cannot save Broken
though I yearn for him.
I now have awoken
to the truth re: him.
My scars are the token
of my love for him.
In words left unspoken
I have died to him.