“I will carry a knife and always it in my mouth.” – Fátima Portorreal
here looking for bones. huesos. unborn generations within fossil coral ancient mud
flanked by wood. engineered madera. stone. piedra
nurse & herald. on luscious lands both victim & captor
my ancestor frightens me
because she is unafraid to show her face
where I lay
Elmina Castle is across the waters. messengers cemented inside deep prefitted gates. prepped for rape & market. Elmina is a Ghanian patchwork skirt.
amarillo for Dutch. bricks archival. rojo for Portuguese.
dents are muscle & roof tiles. this scent a troubled question.
authenticity. re/installment. renovation. restored terrences
I am afraid here because polished replaced rock conceals something.
at Ingenio Boca de Nigua, the lack of putrid molasses makes ghosts of Mastiffs louder. they are in chase of Wolof & Canary skeletons rising
still shackled to their Catholic priests. I hear every bite wail clang fist
here lost in sediments my ancestor is of these worthless Caribs
those Congolese,
them Guineans,
that Angolan
despite her womanhood crowned with bayahibe,
battered feet, wide & flat carry denial’s weight.
she makes the blood & chains obvious.
this damaged fistula.
that hemorrhage.
this embolism.
these severed heads. infections gone septic
upon hearing the palmchat mixed sand & brick
here she stands uncrushed by the sugar’s capicé
a metaphor never swinging at the Door of Mercy
who says “sin hombre, she is useless because she converses with spirits”?
this border’s fragility is not as fierce
my ancestor is assembling the bones of Ana Maria.
this warrior is rattling the grave of Mama Tingo.
my mother is pulling from rubble
Myriam Merlet, Magalie Marcelin
Anne Marie Coriolan, Nicole Grégoire, Gina Dorcena, Mirland Dorvilus, Bernardine Bourdeau
all of her names are remedy.
names heavy on tits exhumed from nightmares
y sin hombre, she is preparing the body of Sonia Pierre
for a proper burial
while Cardinals aspire to burn the names of those
whose spit polish the kitchen tiles & secular marble
sin hombre, she is Atabey, cradling the stillborn children of children named Lucia
the centurion witches of Batey fear her. politicians lose sleep.
with her fishing net, sin hombre, she drags the sea in search of more ancestors
who one by one, speak to her in tongues, in dreams, in flight.
my ancestor frightens me
because she is unafraid to show her face
where I lay.
