(New Year’s Eve in the Great Salt Pond)
by Lasana M. Sekou
Last old night, a fire catch again, sudden so
right before and left after the first eve of the new/daylight coming soon
for these own eyes to see while these ears hear
(a little way off, the boardwalk with less light blast
to fire the old night; we still a little way off to blaze the free sky(
‘t was still bu’nin’, belching a fouling bath breath ah smoke
like a burning dog it yelping from a dis/assembled ga’bage
bleeding a side wounded out by swords of zinc&stink&ooze crap&scrap
)fingering to fort willem, unhealed omen face of rockscrape(
battling flames, grinning fiercely fierce
bus’ up glass bottles crackling a reddish beast rage
‘t patsy brooking ghost this time
‘t she mound heap/in murderous dump/sight
where she can’t walkabout no more
not like a woman to cart the best she can
pushing green bottles to trade&puppies to bathe is our life too:
“scavenger” / buh da cahn be the last herald of her name.
“her legs crushed” / the colony’s compacter did it.
“ruptured main artery” / dateline the ignoble name of “pond island”.
“severe blood loss” / lapping salt weaping memories …
buh ding dang dung
the gate still open
yo’ check?if i self pass to see/the gaping gate
flung wide open&desert still
)but if a wandering tourist had leg it here/&like was without asking
take a picture of your small child or feel-up a grown man ass
and get a god-forbidden lash for thanks
then all the usual would be in a church, braying to lock stock and barrel
of calls&laws to protect&po’ thing&safety&who ain friendly&we economy
&what to be to sell the island&we economy
&gow’ment mouth dung&dem shouting so sorry&we economy
&that piece ah gate would be shut.close.one time.)
but who ‘t is she be again?
wha’ set ah brooks she blood flood from this time?
what is her beauty of gentle eyes smiling, life, blue
black&bleed on the dump, crusted pus boiling on the great pond
where life dunk in brine centuries gone
was like wutless nothing but grief&gone?
let’s end this one here. done the dump&the pond, hmm
let’s see how to park it, a way
a last ditch zone to own.a ring a road a round, half a whipping
white sand of a salted torn crown, strangling thorn.
seal the cradle of the nation.
you want pretty poem for the dead?
you still want pretty poem for the dead?