Migrant in London

Sand under we feet long time.

Sea divided for we, you know,

how we turned stragglers to Mecca.

An' in mi hangin' drape style

I cross worl' centre street, man.

An' busy traffic hoot horns.

I see Big Ben strike

the mark of my king town.

Pigeons come perch on mi shoulder,

roun' great Nelson feet.

I stan' in the roar, man,

in a dream of wheels

a-vibrate shadows.

I feel how wheels hurry in wheels.

I whisper, man you mek it.

You arrive.

Then sudden, like, quite loud I say,

'Then whey you goin' sleep tonight?'

My Arrival

Showing the creature I landed
I slipped from my mother’s womb
flesh connected, laced in a blood-spatter.

My father waited with a bottle of rum.

The moon floated somewhere.
The sea drummed and drummed our coastline.
Mullets darted in wooded steams. 

A good night to end our labour – Saturday.

The country-midwife held me up,
‘Look. Is yu third boy child!’
My mother asked, ‘Him all right?’

 

‘Yes – all eyes, all ears.
Yes – all hands, all feet.’
My mother whispered, ‘Thank God.’
My granny said, ‘My Jim-Jim.
My husband! You come back?’ 

 

I slept.
Roosters crowed
all around the village. 

In the sun’s hot eye
my umbilical cord was dressed
with wood ash, castor oil and nutmeg
and buried under a banana-sucker.
There, a tree made fruits, all mine.