The mountain was awake and crawling.
Banana trees shimmered in dripping sunlight.
An acre of leafy, emerald tongues,
bent, seeming to glow,
each with a gentle, nervous shake from a barely-felt breeze.
Inside- a dirt-floor.
The children looked like bats.
Shirtless, huddled shoulder-to-shoulder.
Each cleverly hunkered down in the same position-
a dark, low wedge against the wall.
Eyes and teeth gleaming,
grinning.
Not the atmosphere of despair I expected.
I counted nine.
I pitied them their skinny, folded limbs
and hopeful stares.
The shack was poorly constructed
and dusty rays filtered through cracks
and holes- slashing legs and dotting foreheads with dry pearls.
Some holes were patched with
colorful squares cut from tin signs.
I thought it looked ‘arty'.
A woman with a broom and cracked, swollen feet
smiled through a mouthful of decayed teeth.
She was pregnant.
I pondered their futures-
and the irony
of sweeping dirt-floors.
Brian, there is some really beautiful writing in this piece. Your description of the emerald tongues, gleaming eyes and teeth (at first sinister, but then not) ...grinning, and the description of the dusty rays as pearls on the skin of the children through the cracks. The final line is great. The irony of sweeping dirt floors. You've created many contrasts between rich and poor with the descriptive imagery. I could truly imagine you there and the setting. Nice start to your Haitian journal series...I'm guessing? Well done.
A situation, all too familiar with many, and all too removed from many
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I could only imagine after reading this Brian, how it would be like surviving on a daily basis for these people and am so grateful for the comforts and choices available living in my country.