TWAL ZWAZO (silk bird)
(tale of a Haitian woman)

Her space
The settlement of rusted flesh
A sense of isolation
Lamentation in her accordion dream
A female ventriloquist in a state of longing
Collaboration gelled in her empty eyes
Empty heart
Empty soul
Buried climax
Head wrapped with recitation
Knotted by horsehair with fish bones
Underskinned fighting for courage
Crucified by sleep without rest
Politics urinating blood
Leave streaks of revolt
Chained by poverty
With lack of literacy
She wants to be set free
From instability
Free from coup d’etat’s whips
Free from the ruckus
Those drop spits from the elite
Their legacy migrates seasons of drought
On eye sockets nestled in pus
No water to irrigate the peasants
My ancestors descended from Jeremie
Down the tiny hill of Rozeau
The village town where women eat mud with their toes
And men pour their wounds on Haiti’s soil
You will find her there
Sheltered in her carnivorous bones soft like manioc
Hairless with her virus
She will question you with a Mardi gras smile
Who are you?
What can you do to help your our people?
Take note
Grab a tape recorder
Her story she wants to be heard
Hurry before she flies away with Diaspora wings
Before she reaches the skies with claws of her spine
There is no rainfall in her coffin
No vegetation
The rivers have dried out
The scent of bones is present
©2010 by C. Delaleu