The Devil’s Mother

The toad that blocks the well from flowing wine. The rat that gnaws at the roots of the tree and withers its flowers. You would never have known about the toad and rat had you not travelled to the devil to pluck three golden hairs from his head and chin. You would never have married the princess if the devil's mother hadn't helped you and asked her son the questions for you of why the toad and rat were there, so that within the woolen folds of her skirt you could hear the answers hiding in the plain sight of darkness. You might have missed your fortune and been left stranded on the river bank.

Instead, for your courageous work, so clear the problem of the toad and rat. They bubbled up, because you went looking for them, even though the King sent you out on completely different business with the devil. To release dams and flow wine, strengthen roots and grow golden apples from the once twisted branches of your body, mended from the inside out, stitched together with moonlight and fairytales that map transport to the stars without ever leaving your seat. All because the devil's mother helped you and took you in her lap,
and sang to you these words

Dip deep into the inkwell of your body with breath.

Let it fill your voice with story.
Then enchant the whole world with its flowing song.

Work of Art

I am constantly an artwork, gazing, moving, living through landscapes painted with the blood of every mother's womb. Scenes with echoes of meadows hover nearby. Waiting doe catch the scent of approaching stags and wonder, is there any end to this mystery of who makes sunflowers gyrate their heads with the sun and whistling steam engines turn wheels of time framed within bones and flesh that provide a pitcher to pour the world as me, imagined fresh each day, as flowers in a vase, displayed in front of an open window, ensconced by the splendor of creation, born for all to delight their eyes upon

the Earth.

Wrong Men

They are like soldiers

all the same 

unable to feel

yet they come after you like the enemy to be won

claiming the territory of your body

clever spy
trained to extract information
knows how to invade

all the corners of your privacy
until you reveal your heart

the fatal opening

unsuspecting of a trap 

the snare at your ankle

sets off the explosion 

shellshocked
you're left on the barren field, bleeding
as they march away 

no remorse 

for their duty 

to woman 

left for dead

all those wrong men

who buried
you

alive 

Dreamwork

How luxurious this jewel

the eye of a flower

the flicker of a bird's wing

Listen to the deep where the lotus roots its material
in a mass of mud
below

Hear those voiceless words beaming
through the silence on the shores
of breath

My self

crowds out the mind

with a suit of space

that takes me to the door of my heart

There an old woman points me where to look in its cavern 

so deep

her speech

soft

as petals 

a dove's wing

constantly on the threshold of a dream

as if falling through space and exhaling last words

It is by dying that I live

so take me willingly, free and brave

Fisherman, St. Croix

Published in The Caribbean Writer Volume 29.

Tonio, old Puerto Rican fisherman, says, “I smell rain,” stops in his garden tracks, points a cracked finger toward the blue humid sky, then cocks his head and eye to the inner ear and bids me, listen

to the Bananaquit’s song, tiny yellow-bellied bird, its quippering pitch and flittering wings above my head, halo etched in memory, now inside my body, St. Croix, island, a silent soliloquy, rooting me in

flamboyant trees, great canopies just beginning to bloom, bright red in the heat along with June mangos.