a thousand sunrises after the miasma, the sea was a glass wine
wind, but
we also had other things. when we could dance on soil again, we made dances of everything. you could see it
in a child’s firm touch of their parent’s hand, in the infinite closeness of lovers’ lips, it is
indomitable space, ruled by wild poinsettia and paphinia
cristata, thwarting what is difficult.
the navy blue lapels used to stop us dancing, tanty used
to say. they’d wait for
a boy hued like me in his school uniform, or any neighbour
too small for the
shirt on his back, shout why he was greedy for sun. she say
they police
the rations of breath itself to
each of we by the way the mountains intervene
the wind. but that was a thousand dark clouds ago. because
my tanty and her tanty chanted our names on the wind, it
is owed us well. we water the green-streets, each living
pavement is
all of ours by the sun, never begging any of us shade in
private,
no longer a plantation-right, or a baton’s secret guarded
property.