Glory

Most days before he was born
sun refused to leave her doorway

smells of nutmeg, curry chicken, angostura bitters
and her own dust peppered the hallways

thyme, zaboca, lucky leaves and small reels
of blond cobweb thread lined the bedside table

she had spent most of the nine months before his birth
sewing little white hats, sleeping gowns

booties and blankets. It seems like that boy housed her body
for ten months or more, and by the time he was born none of her

handmade fineries could fit him. Finally her water broke
streaking a patterned ribbon along the bathroom and living room floors

it was a strange color, the midwife said,
a mix of pink pomerac and dark Chablis

oh God, spare him, she prayed as she waited
in the bamboo rocking chair that her grandfather had lacquered

the color of dried rosemary leaves. From the second floor balcony
she could see the family grave yard elegant mansions of ochre and lime

she greeted Pa every morning with rose hips and brandy
sprinkled on the raw earth, and every night two red shango candles

keep my boy well Pa, lord she had so many names for that one child
Asah and Rufus, Marley and Anslem

he was born when Sunday slipped behind the moon
into the wide oval verandah of the midwife’s arms

puce was the color of his skin
she called him Glory.