Art by Heather Doram, Antigua
Krik, krak
an island space
temporal and
eternal through
natives’ speech
reminding generations
of a land
that brought
them forth in a birth pan
and rested them
in a grave
For them
will my shores be
a landing
for conquistadors
coming to fulfill
a prophecy
as merchants
holding golden chains?
Will my ports
become an entry
for stolen souls?
Will Africans stand
on my shore
and stare across to the horizon
wondering whether
they’ll ever fly back
to their bodies
caught in rip tides
and stuck between
my currents.
Will I become
recolonized through
tanned asses,
and reddened skins
lounging on sands
with bodies
buried below?
Bahama mamas
and sky juices
tell more tales than
ghosts of Arawaks
haunting left behind
bowls
In the production of paradise,
Fiction is reality.
As an island
I am reformed
in any image
outside my own:
To my mother tongue
rebirth me
in the image of a gaulin
so I may slip off this skin
And take flight.
Regards from Guanahani
