birds singing before sunrise

Screams filled the attic that summer,
but you wouldn't know,
because no one was around
to hear as he placed his hands
across her back,
and told her
everything was going to be okay.
But she was scared.
Her lips quivered at the taste.
The taste of his flesh upon
her tongue, as belt buckles
un-did, and hips fell to the ground
almost silently. His hands
heavy against her thigh,
crawling passed innocent secrets
clasping her youth between his
thick fingers and
coarse palms.
she tried to call him,
"father"
because that was
the only name she had known.
She had wanted to say
"stop" because somewhere
she knew that it was wrong. But instead,
she let her tears run, because her legs
could not.
He had whispered hot
"I love you's" in her ears
that summer, but she couldn't comprehend
because all she knew was
that this love hurt.

She wondered why it was
raining so heavy.
I had only wanted to embrace her,
tell her that it was okay
to dream, to forget to remember,
and that it was raining because
she had never stood still long enough
to let the pain hit her. But,
all that was heard was silence,
like the attic that summer,
even after all these years
she was still ashamed of
her feelings. And that night,
she had found beauty
in birds singing before sunrise.
As she took a slow drag from her cigarette
and shot silver streams into the
cool dark sky. And she walked forward
into the morning.

She


She

took a slow drag
from her cigarette
and shot silver streams
from the corners of
her rosed lips.

She smoked secrets
and let them burn
between the cracks
of her fingers.
They burned a dusty orange and red
and soon
they receded black.
To be flicked,
disregarded and filtered away.

she was my cancer
the way the smoke kissed
her face
like somber clouds
sunken
over gray
rivers.

kissed her,
the way I wished I could.
the smoke,
as it danced beautiful
between
golden curls
and beams
of pale light

She watched it
as it floated heavy,
spiraled and conformed
like withered balloons
that have been forgotten
and passed the prime of their youth
but she was still so young.
and foolish for drowning
in a place where everyone else seemed to float.

Untitled

Ink
flowed from the palms of my hands,
like abundant seas
filled with sound and fury
where my ancestors used to belong.

Where they sang and danced
in West Indian tongue
as they joyfully cried sweat from their
dark Caribbean pores.

It flowed down
each brown crack
and tan crease
like the rivers
where the boys bathe
in the nakedness of their youth.

And unlike the others,
who make noise
to fill the uncertainty of silence,
my pen,
as it cuts into the page
with each stroke tells of
steel pan cutting into the thick night air.

Of strong legs
and bold hips
creating storms of colors
as they sway in the calypso breeze.
and fires, (in their brilliant blaze)
embalmed in the chests of men
illuminating the bowls of sweat
that fall like rain
against the hot pitch road.

My pen tells of women
strong and sweet
as sugar cane
who bend
but refuse to break.
And the sweet taste of mangoes
on mornings when we sat
under the shade of the tree.