"Mrs. Collymore's House"
Margaret Wade '09
Mrs. Collymore's porch wraps around her house
like a wide white sash with green trim --
such a little lady in such a big house,
with a big heart (but alone).
We are her guests, her scholars for the week,
watching the neighborhood rituals,
smelling the Creole delicacies that waft from room to room.
We meet Hélène ( Saint Lucia ) for the Light, for the experience.
Mrs. Collymore's porch is cucumber cool, safe
from the shirt-sticking dehydration we feel
marching up and down the road mountains
from Souffrière's volcanoes long ago.
I can see the whole neighborhood when I close my eyes:
the spiritual Baptists down the hill, with electronic music,
the Baptists up the hill with the organ hymns,
and the dog choirs barking alleluias throughout the night.
Mrs. Collymore's porch listens to our American voices,
like tin can trumpets. Its walls are fluent in kweyol, French, English.
The airport down the hill sends a plane up
every five minutes or so - giving me Casablanca chills.
Breaking the stillness, a chubby five-year old bursts into the scene,
running circles, flinging lace doilies: reckless joy,
at grandma's house (Mrs. Collymore's house)
where fat feet pitter patter, slapping against the cool tile.
Mrs. Collymore's grandson is Anjani Francis.
He draws her pictures, with his chubby hands,
in exchange for something sweet to nibble as he waddles.
She is grandma and grandpa and father for him.
Mrs. Collymore's view is a postcard of the sea
(except for the obtrusive telephone wires that slice the landscape in two)
I see Martinique and century's old battle cries echo in the early morning calm.
A hill with a lighthouse frames the scene, cradling a teacup of ocean to the left.
I slide into daydream dizziness, drinking up
the glassy sea, wondering what secrets are hidden on the hill.
"Some people are meant to live alone"
Mrs. Collymore was meant to live
with a circus.
