Rocking in the dark and silence again, 

two heads nuzzled against my breast, 

eight limbs flail out from beneath, 

an octopus gliding through the sea.

 

I know they’re old enough 

to be put straight to bed

yet here we are 

night after night 

squeezed into this glider,

once sea green

now a mossy grey, 

lulling us to the beat  

of a mesmeric sway.  

There was another glider 

in the Special Care ward 

where I sat and rocked 

my newborns light as feathers, 

me with a heart weighted

and ready for flight.

In that glider I soothed tiny bodies,

stroked downy heads, 

inhaled sweet breaths 

and prayed 

and cried 

and sang 

over my daughter 

and my son.

And there was the nurse who said 

there was something wrong with my boy— 

his tiny body didn’t move right

his cry wasn’t right, 

and he wouldn’t be right. 

But the baby next door 

had just the right cry, 

an intelligent cry 

is what she called it.

And that baby was white,

and my boy with his pale skin 

and navy eyes and wispy hair 

only looked the part—

except for his nose, 

round as the sun, 

harbinger of Blackness 

to come.

I knew she was lying, 

but I had to stake my claim. 

So I asked the doctor, loudly

if anything was wrong with my boy

(I made sure she was nearby).

“No,” he said, “not at all,”

and she didn’t come near me again, 

because I was that bitch.  

She left me to glide  

on my private sea 

with two hushed, sleepy infants 

born strong but early 

nestled in the crook of each arm. 

My foremothers glided 

on a rockier sea 

surrounded by the stench of death 

on their way to hell 

where their worth was measured

in profits not theirs.

Arms and wombs and spirits full   

of children not yet separated, 

did they too sit hushed, in stunned 

silence and darkness,

waiting, praying for renewed life 

or release from this earth?

And there was Solitude, 

insurgent mother from Guadeloupe, 

captured for abetting a slave rebellion. 

They waited until she gave birth 

to take her life. 

Did she rock her baby through the night: 

its first and her last?

Did she glide to a realm 

where they could be free?

Another nurse came at night 

when the ward was still.

She whispered that my babies 

were strong and smart 

and ready to go home. 

She saw her children in mine 

and offered a wordless pact. 

There we were:

two midnight women,

conjoined in solitude,

conspiring in the dark 

over babies to be freed. 

And I suppose that is why 

we retreat to this glider 

night after night.

It has long been this way:

Black mothers and children, 

gliding, hoping, praying, breathing. 

Nestled together in darkness 

and in silence, 

awaiting the peace 

alighting at dawn. 

We Bar at One O’ Clock

I must have circled the earth that year

in Trinidad under the blazing sun:

my sinewy legs trekking

up Mount St. Benedict for a breeze, 

and down to Curepe for doubles with pepper.

I ran across Maracas beach,

then sprinted to the maxi taxi

that carried me to Chaguanas, 

and on to Enterprise, 

where Abigail’s mother whispered,

“lean on the Lord,” 

when I nearly fainted from the heat 

one Sunday morning. 

Walking home I passed We Bar

where men gathered, imbibing the spirits 

the church had traded for grape juice. 

And I stopped, for a moment watching 

the rude bwoys and natty dreads 

who watched me constantly:

watched my legs in perpetual motion

up and down Eastern Main Road,

offering me smiles or sly compliments 

muttered at half breath,

but never a drink or a dance,

for I was marked in their eyes 

with the sign of the cross:

a good girl not to be touched. 

It wasn’t true, but no one 

has greater faith than men 

in a bar at midday.  

There was one dread

who had long studied me,

the chasm between us buckling 

under the weight of his gaze 

that I never returned. 

But that day I lingered, 

watching him from the doorway 

as he danced by himself,

lost in the medley of Marley. 

It was one o’clock in the afternoon 

and he moved as though time had stopped 

and he had floated away,

far from the concrete of St. Augustine.

See him now in the mountains

dancing among the trees,

free as we are meant to be:

a rebel, soul rebel. 

I could not disturb his reverie

or shatter the myth of my being,

so I walked back to my room 

in the house across the street 

where the music from We Bar wafted

in with spirits mixed with sweat.

And in my room I danced,

alone and with my dread— 

if you’re not happy 

then you must be blue.

There are no saints or sinners,

there is just we— all of us 

capturers, soul adventurers

moving together, dancing alone 

at We Bar at one o’clock.