AT THE HANOVER MUSEUM

Lucea, Jamaica, 2000

Once many believed in a common dream

of this island, variegated skins of fruit

arrayed at market. Every mickel mek a muckle.

But the land keeps opening to loss—

flame tree seeds shaken loose from limbs,

sifted flour that will not rise into bread.

Stalks of cane grow, unaware of their irony,

scattered across this museum’s grounds.

Inside, shackles affixed to cement blocks

have rusted to vermillion, almost beautiful.

Here, the sea breaking against cliffs

is a voice I might mistake for the past.

At the entrance to town, the sea wall stands.

Balanced on the edge of water and land,

children play in the surf. Fishermen,

visible in the distance,

will later bring in the day’s catch:

snapper on a string, mackerel, even barracuda.

In a place where wind drags through leaves,

where dusk can rip daylight to shreds,

I emerge, remembering

how to eat sugar cane:

spit out the pulp,

before it grows reedy and bitter in your mouth.