Poem 3 of 30 - April 2012
Crossroads
In the very still of night when folks are asleep
And the devil’s angels fight making spirits weep
I’ll be in the cemetery with horns on my head
I save a cross and two big pony invoking the dead…
Mighty Sparrow – Witch Doctor
This is the moment the boy has been waiting
for. This, the canopy of night black enough
for everything he’s ever wanted to say. This,
the corner, the crossroads where the magic
is right, where the voices are loudest. He calls
on the clairvoyance of women. He calls
to their skins and the wellish laughter
of their throats. He calls to the duppy
in him that unnames his own will
when it rises up to meet them. He begs
for a potion, a spell, extra time, whatever
it takes to unlock the genie in his bones.
All he wants to know is why all his roads
have turned into rivers. Why all his spirits
have begun speaking in different unrecognizable
tongues. It’s not that he’s complaining
but there was a time where everywhere
the ghosts spoke in pianos. They spoke
waist music. They spoke in a pore-stippling
staccato. And now this. All this river road
and him without a way to know if to cross
or be carried downstream.
So he consults the night. It’s worked
before. He can’t sleep anyway.
The night is where the answers
used to come. So many portents –
pigeons wheeling and turning –
an old calypsonian walking the streets
with a trophy in his hand – Frida
Kahlo laughing in his living room –
a douen of a woman stealing
his spirit in a foreign city –
all when the day is just black
enough to begin the song towards
blue. He knows enough now
to show up at this corner
in his shiniest black skin
and wait for some word.
It always comes – a talking drum,
a child, a dream in which
an animal sings
the most mournful
ballads – and nearby
pianos.
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