Thanks to The Caribbean Writer for publishing Accent Stress and SIDS in Volume 31 February 2017. The original published poems can be read in a sample of the magazine on-line Pages 87-89. The latest versions of the poems are below.
Accent Stress
I write
to warn about the
weight
of an accent:
The unexpected prejudice
against vocal tones;
acute stress hung over
deemed-guilty head.
I write
to talk about the
trial
of an accent:
Syllables, soft, sheepish,
conjure mammoth misdeeds;
jury deaf to words,
judged by inflection.
I write
to spill about the
stain
of this accent:
Diacritic label
branding me as other,
condemning me as grave
deserter of my tribe.
I wasn’t cautioned about the
curse
of this accent:
An abracadabra genie that
won’t disappear;
words wedged like ruby slippers,
leading back to surrogate home.
I wasn’t prepared for the
price
of this accent:
Naively acquired
infinitely dear;
marks me circumflex artery
that fed youth to another.
I didn’t try to
treasure
my accent:
Insidious new
lilt so slyly invaded;
native tongue tied,
put out like garbage.
SIDS
Why this tenacious hold on these
shameful memories?
Like the time an overseas businessman looked down
and whispered to me with pity:
SIDS are not part of our marketing strategy;
as if we were an STD of a country,
inconveniently breaking out
while he tried to court our big sisters.
He saw us, runt of a state,
vulnerable, needy, clutching
a fistful of crumpled notes in one hand,
and clinging to his coattails with the other,
our mouths open, waiting to catch crumbs.
His Mother never told him about
the good things that burst out of small packages.
And that time the son of a local merchant
stated with supercilious slur:
The nature of your people is perfectly suited to the service industry;
and further added—architectural advancements
mean you all can scurry like tropical moles in tunnels
to serve tourists unseen.
He said we should all be grateful for the work
and not to worry our little selves,
management would be flown in along with
ingredients for international cuisine—
and we would get a free pass to the private beach—
at low season—
only if we promised to behave and for God’s sake be quiet;
just grin white teeth and wait.
Did he care to know our past?
That our islands were pillaged;
our ancestors served and
human resourced a revolution;
provided the privilege for
some of these tourist trips and tips—
that we had not yet
healed from history nor
unchained service from servitude.
He had been mothered by my mother
who he looked down his narrow nose at
but never saw.
I will let these memories go
for sometimes they contain
contaminated truths and
we all have more poems
to write.
No Comments