She, on the Way to Monk’s Hill

She, on the Way to Monk’s Hill

She, on the Way to Monk’s Hill

She knows everyone on the way to Monk’s Hill,
stops to ask for mangoes – they are growing everywhere
it’s almost a crime to pay.

At the overflowing bridge, men wash pink-skinned sweet potatoes
while the river steals a few,
she hollers hello and lets them know, tells me, they’ll fetch them later.

Stopping for ginnip breeds nostalgia
of her childhood in Guyana –
plantain, sour-sop, breadfruit –
always free, from neighbours,

says her brother doesn’t believe in apples;
he’s never seen an apple tree, so doesn’t trust the juice.
But her nephew, he eats strawberries in
banana cake and doesn’t know the difference.

She careens through mud; a carefree cowboy, calling out the sights,
arms wrapped around her waist, I am a jockey without her reigns,
holding on to every word, bracing at every hurdle.


St. John’s, Antigua, 30 May 2010