when Montserrat simmered
on the edge of noon’s blue heat

fishermen would sound a tantara of conchs
to tout fresh turtle meat

later in the evening I’d dice cool
christophene, mash da green banana

split open passion
fruit - sieve pip from pulp

for a tall glass of squash
to toast turtle braised in brandy

on the back stoop, Jumbie
Osgood cat-crunched beetles

in time to my kitchen calypso
and we both danced unaware

of Soufriere smoking its pipe
on the turtle-back of this Emerald Isle


© 2003 by PJ Nights

previously published in Slow Trains