A woman stands. At her side?
The real Flower’s secret armada of red “petals”–––
Each carries the divine passenger.
How could I have known?
The real Flower’s secret armada of red “petals?”
A word can hoard entire stories: Man!
I should have known–––
like the hand, a wanted possession; or the mouth, the bitten tongue.
Words hoard entire stories: Man! Don’t let no man
wipe his feet on your dress sang a great Scotts-Irish woman.
Without biting my tongue, without burning my hands:
I clap the oiled hot bread.
No man wipe his feet on your dress! sings my great-gran Nicholls
from the bridge of my grandmother’s mouth.
I clap the oiled hot roti.
I douse the tawah with ghee.
From the bridge of my grandmother’s mouth:
Remember? Olive oil and lemon juice–––
(I douse the hand-forged iron with ghee)
will keep knuckles from darkening.
Olive oil and lemon juice? Remember:
Gingerlilies float on the table.
Will keep my elbows from darkening?
Still, I am the breadfruit’s roast brown skin.
Gingerlilies float on the table.
Her hands: the breadfruit’s creamy insides.
I am the breadfruit’s outside skin, brown
like the Garifuna woman, unnamed in this floating kitchen.
Our hands knead and roll and twist and fold the bread’s creamy insides
against a hand-polished horizon.
Why is her Garifuna mother unnamed in this floating kitchen?
If I taste salt, raise a veil of flour, will I see?
Against a hand-polished horizon–––
At her side! A woman stands.
Salt-still, in a veil of Flowers. Red Mother–––
Granny’s one dark passenger.
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