III
The Cry of Flesh
Et Maintenant, les Antilles.
The ticking of tombs,
abandoned
somewhere we never find,
between
the dance of darkness
in the island of Boukman, tap-taps,
Tabou Combo and Sweet Mickey,
in the streets of Port-au-Prince-
Ayiti cherie, plus bel pays-
Cité Soleil, where the sun forgets
and people compete for the heavens,
with baskets on their heads
perfectly balanced
walking at all speeds
counting their steps their days,
hoping to find God
in the poor hands of another.
I leave with the Kreyol -
tioul, zonbi, refijye, testaman, ma lé-
leave the soft drumming of shadows
leave our sleep: we did what we had to,
but it was not enough.
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«En me renversant, on n'a abattu à Saint-Domingue que le tronc de l'arbre de la liberté, mais il repoussera car ses racines sont profondes et nombreuses» Toussaint Louverture.
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