Haitian Journal 1974 Poem by Brian Mayo

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.