return

by Dionne Brand

I

So the street is still there, still melting with sun

still the shining waves of heat at one o’clock

the eyelashes scorched, staring the distance of the

park to the parade stand, still razor grass burnt and

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cropped, everything made indistinguishable from dirt

by age and custom, white washed, and the people…

still I suppose the scorpion orchid by the road, that

fine red tongue of flamboyant and orange lips

muzzling the air, that green plum turning fat and

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crimson, still the crazy bougainvillea fancying and

nettling itself purple, pink, red, white, still the trickle of

sweat and cold flush of heat raising the smell of

cotton and skin… still the dank rank of breadfruit milk,

their bash and rain on steps, still the bridge this side

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the sea that side, the rotting ship barnacle eaten still

the butcher’s blood staining the walls of the market,

the ascent of hills, stony and breathless, the dry

yellow patches of earth still threaten to swamp at the

next deluge… so the road, that stretch of sand and

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pitch struggling up, glimpses sea, village, earth

bare-footed hot, women worried, still the faces,

masked in sweat and sweetness, still the eyes

watery, ancient, still the hard, distinct, brittle smell of

slavery.