Transition, Issue 128, 2019, pp. 31-33 (Article) Published by Indiana University Press
When They Come for Us
My people, my people—
sou lari anba tant blan.
Skin folk rubbed between
white fingers like playdough
and set in sun to harden
and become a shelled thing.
They come for us.
Dollars press against hungry
palms as the blood on our lips
is strong and bitter now. I
take the strength of Fatiman,
sewing it to the hems of skirts
like Catherine binding the drapo
I now press against my breast.
We are winning. Wild
tankou dlo anba golgota. We are
whole bodies of Yemeya. Tande m
chante non l. Listen to the song
of angry bodies crashing along
a coast spread open and taken.
My people, cut from kinfolk
and reworked like property.
My people, together nou gen fos,
my people, blood bone buried deep in the soil of history,
my people, sugar cane men ak yon souri so sweet,
my people, Manman Ayiti on golgota never making it to Miyami,
my people, Jaspora on corner selling pate, minutes, and a dream,
my people, in Camry riding eight deep to the babeku,
my people, lot bo dlo ki fet anba san Ayiti,
my people, with the difficult name ki pa vle speak Inglich,
my people, ki pa vle di I’m sorry,
my people, depi Ayiti ki pa nan rans,
my people, lave men w ak moun ki soti pou defini Ayisyen,
and when they come for us,
my people, we’ll be ready.
Swisha
I done came all this way
sun stuffed deep in my pocket
taking their whole ass system off balance.
Strip the earth of its soul between
a spicy tongued shaven thing
that is loud like Kayiman 1791.
Their soil reaps the benefits
of a salted labor so I knock
wind back over mountains. Skin
of my kin becomes unburied
and I done made all these plans
for 40 hectares of sugarcane
and a bunch of parsley
that won’t run blood.
I been put in the time. Been
momma to stateless unidentifieds.
Shit, I took the whole ass solèy
and got it in my pocket.
Ain’t I done enough?
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