PSALM FOR KINGSTON

If I forget thee, O Jerusalem

—Psalm 137

City of Jack Mandora—mi nuh choose none—of Anancy

prevailing over Mongoose, Breda Rat, Puss, and Dog, Anancy

saved by his wits in the midst of chaos and against all odds;

of bawdy Big Boy stories told by peacock-strutting boys, hush-hush

but loud enough to be heard by anyone passing by the yard.

City of market women at Half-Way-Tree with baskets

atop their heads or planted in front of their laps, squatting or standing

with arms akimbo, susuing with one another, clucking

their tongues, calling in voices of pure sugar, come dou-dou: see

the pretty bag I have for you, then kissing their teeth when you saunter off.

City of school children in uniforms playing dandy shandy

and brown girl in the ring—tra-la-la-la-la—

eating bun and cheese and bulla and mangoes,

juice sticky and running down their chins, bodies arced

in laughter, mouths agape, heads thrown back.

City of old men with rheumy eyes, crouched in doorways,

on verandahs, paring knives in hand, carving wood pipes

or peeling sugar cane, of younger men pushing carts

of roasted peanuts and oranges, calling out as they walk the streets

and night draws near, of coconut vendors with machetes in hand.

City where power cuts left everyone in sudden dark,

where the kerosene lamp’s blue flame wavered on kitchen walls,

where empty bellies could not be filled,

where no eggs, no milk, no beef today echoed

in shantytowns, around corners, down alleyways.

City where Marley sang, Jah would never give the power to a baldhead

while the baldheads reigned, where my parents chanted

down Babylon—Fire! Burn! Jah! Rastafari! Selassie I!—

where they paid weekly dues, saving for our passages back to Africa,

while in their beds my grandparents slept fitfully, dreaming of America.

City that lives under a long-memoried sun,

where the gunmen of my childhood have been replaced

by dons that rule neighbourhoods as fiefdoms, where violence

and beauty still lie down together. City of my birth—

if I forget thee, who will I be, singing the Lord’s song in this strange land?