Death of an Overseer

The overseer dead and he whip sprout
scarlet lilies. Whole cane fields bowed
and weeds run riot,
mosquitoes stop suck blood
and fireflies lose their light.
Yea, he who wield whip with skill, dead;
he who hit them roped bodies wearing blindfold,
he who lash don’t miss, dead.

He who sing, This job is too sweet, as he fleck,
bloody raindrops from blistering skin, gone,
causing women to raise up they red petticoats
and dance, trampling he grave,
while machetes pound stone, lips drown rum,
and burn on highwine.

2

He disappeared from their thoughts
in a finger click. There was one-piece of no funeral
where Angie wrap that long skirt tight
so she could sway to leaves clapping
on the trees where she used to hang and swing,
licks raining on her skin
making marks like scattered rice.
Oh the splek and splak of that rope!

Now she prays to God to pelt him
with hard rock, to peel he skin
from he bones, make he crawl like swine,
this day when the mosquitoes strike
and the fireflies cease to glow.

3

Who beat drum and chant themselves into trance?
Who plant flower seed with light heart? Who talk
to jumbie, begging them to whip he hard down there,
beat he with bamboo, make he body bear red hibiscus,
he face turn ripe tomato, make he seed dry and burn?

Oh now he dead, life sweet like ripe sugar cane
and children’s laughter fresh like spring water.