Caribæa

I.
He sees her dark hair
under the green leaves.
Her hands are filled with dirt
but she is happy.
He stays.
He is her son still.

II.
When my brother told me
to leave, I left,
and I have not gone back.

The place
where I came from
is a dark hole
in the jungle, the sun not piercing
its massive leaves.
When my brother stays he knows
he is a griever, he wrings
his hands over the rain.

III.
Her heliconia and caribæa
fire themselves: red rifles in the sky.
Our roof is a sorry skirt to their madness.

She works these things from the dirt with her hands.
In daylight no one can sit her down.
Sometimes even at night she stands
sometimes without moonlight, her own moon
propelling gently from her head.
She gives water to the caribæa
til the caribæa does not need it,
grows the flowers of her own funeral.

I don't see my brother
cutting the fine stalks
of the caribæa
when she lies down
to sleep.
I see him taking the legs
of our house
and pulling them back,
I see him quietly
exposing her
intricate roots.

Moana Minton

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