Mangoes at Saffron Sunsets

By Karem Barratt


There is a house nested like a fat white dove
In front of the Caribbean Sea,
And when my world was new
I used to dance there, barefooted,
To the notes of the braided, thundering waves,
Raced the echo of my steps in the long veranda,
And shouted, pleased, as I touched the cool snow
Of the adobe wall, coppery at saffron sunsets,
When we would sit, my sister and I,
Scratched knees and wild grins,
And eat ripe, juicy mangoes under the green
Hood of the wide studded door
-Our fruit-smeared fingers mixing gold with gold,
As we pretended to touch the melting, sizzling sun.
I hardly see her anymore, my sister.
But when the grey city bites my soul
And life starts fires in my eyes,
I dream us back to the house veiled
By bougainvilleas and coconut trees.
We are sitting, in the glossy
Ivory tiled kitchen making tamarind juice,
The wooden spoon tinkling against the icy glass,
Like tolling bells on a Sunday afternoon
From long, long ago,
When the world was so new
Some things had no name.
Our eyes were so very young.

Three Hours Before The War

by Karem Barratt

Cinnamon dreams fly from porridge bowls,
In the cool, early morning light.
To the music of a xylophone, the radio
Announcer chants the bargains of the day.
Humming, she goes about, in the warm
Embrace of the kitchen I don’t want to leave.
But the bus is coming, driving slowly
Over shaded lanes, the sun spinning
Delicate laces through the canopy
Of the acacia trees, birds singing sins
(My father used to say), choiring with
Crickets and tea pots, while iron pans
Fry merry dawns out of humble eggs.
The bus honks, and she calls my name,
Her eyes bright with dreams
That will not come to pass.
But she believes, and I believe with her,
Because last night I saw a man
Walking on the moon, weaved in
A tapestry of gray blinking stars
That sounded, at times, like the sea in a shell
-But the bus is waiting and she kisses me, hurriedly,
Her breath a waft of mint and honey
And toasted corn bread.
I wave good-bye and run off to my last day
Of innocence, three hours before the war
And the absence she is to leave.
The bus turns at the corner of King’s road.
The paper man sits, bored,
On a table of news tainted red.