Emily Lindo
3/5/2007
Sweet Trinidad
You drink, you lime,
and then you flail,
privilege always crumbles
beneath the soca band's squall.
Throb with the cadence
that's hidden in the pan,
Camera in hand, in the dark,
music beaten out of steel.
Anansi vexes from the gutter,
the plantation.
Have some change? He'll snatch your soul
to feed the scarlet fire.
Coconut man hollers
Morning Snowflake!
Our muted flock whirls
- we can't help it -
and we glisten with sweat like sun on rum punch.
He wields his machete
like death's scythe through mortal wheat,
not watching the coconut cleave;
his eyes never leave my face.
The juice trickles clear - we're surprised it's not white.
