Friday, January 15, 2010


The Haitian rain
falls heavy.
Birds sing to it
songs in strange bird tongues.
By the merest glint
of light,
the lonely curiosity
of the alien,
understands these birds
better than
the people.


Haitian light
so other
Iona’s, Delphi’s, Nova Scotia’s.
Softish here the light
and languid.
Light’s difference
does not look
It others how
all things appear.
I would be changed
by a vision
– not something seen –
but a way of seeing.


Les Beaux remote
mountain village.
The church concrete
& cinder block.

Guilene, in yellow
skirt and top
neatly pressed
and grey New York baseball cap
over tight black ringlets,
may someday be Haiti’s second
woman priest.

But now, bent double,
in her Sunday best,
she mops the church floor
with a towel,
pulling outside
last night’s rain.

And now
she sits
beside her mother
in plaid suit
and scarf
yellow, black, purple,
blue, & orange
knotted at the top.

They are waiting
for something
to begin.

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