Visited you in Seven Zero,

two young daughters in tow.

Port-au-Prince then was the warm clasp

of market woman, coronation, grass-yard,

breasts full of milk, warm

infants with round bottoms sleeping on

clean crocus,

coal dust under your fingernails,

and coco-kale stew

bubbling in a three-foot pot.

I lifted my eyes to the bare hillsides

under the Citadel.

No Carpentier,

no 'kingdom of this world'

Zero Seven:

no sanctions, no ceasefire,

though next door Guillen speaks

with open, soundless mouth.

Neighbour, a girl in Trelawny

climbs uphill, her toes locked

in mud to pull you up!

END

- Cordella Lewis

The Longest Day

The longest day is one when the sun peeps through cloudy sky,

And the minutes creep instead of fly.

The longest day is lonely and void of human interaction,

The longest day is when you stay at home trying to find satisfaction.

The longest day is when your thoughts dwell on all that it can find,

And there is enough time to register every detail on your mind.

The longest day seems to have more than 24 hours,

It is a day when you are possessed with lonely powers.

The longest day is friendless and boring,

The longest day is when your thoughts go touring.

The longest day is when you remember

All that happens from January to December

- Nalda Taylor-Wright

Fallen

I don't know her, that woman in my mirror,

but I feel the way she looks:

her hair wild, her eyes bloodshot,

lips chapped, skin ashen,

ragged nails, with the traces of good-times red.

The dirty neckline of her blouse has slipped

and exposed a collarbone extended and cupped,

as old folks say, to catch water.

No, I don't know her, but she

might be a friend of mine

fallen on bad times.

END

- Kimmisha Thomas

Sunday Blues

Three crows, the flicker of a lamp,

shuffling noises, restless sighs -

the morning begins.

Washing in unwelcome cold

water with the critters of the wild,

praying for warmth,

while, nestled in bed, Aunt P sleeps.

Tiptoeing about; pants, shirt, tie,

shoes, sock, hat, everything clean, even me.

Set her bath water, gather eggs,

fill the kettle, sweep the floor -

did I clean her shoes?

For miles, shoes, too tight,

skip over puddles.

Tired of pilgrimage.

As I travel,

the sun greets the sky,

and the sweat beads form.

Bells toll in the distance.

As slowly as they ring

the day will close.

I'll listen and pray

for next Sunday,

dreading those three crows.

END

- Avi Miller