he slashed his cutlass across her face,
her raised hand failed to shield
against the second blow.
One finger cut clean off.
She deserved it, Auntie Julie said.
I know, if it was her daughter,
she would hunt and gut him
like wild manicou.
Reggae blares from Eggie’s rum shop,
Miss Junes practises hymns for the church choir.
This street is a child’s playground
where all the sounds battle until they harmonise.
But there’s no fight here. Well,
two little girls punch up, stop talk, then make up.
They say Is not he fault, too much Clarke’s Court
full he belly and heat up he blood.
She took him back in.
I hear no apology left his lips.