S o n g   o f   F o r g e t t i n g

-- Hatfield, MA

The brown barns steam
in August mornings like loaves
of unsliced bread. Scattered
here and there, tractors crumple
the earth, their big American
tires wheeling like night skies
devoid of stars. We haul carpets
of tobacco into barns, hang
the spiced skins in rows
to dry between slats where
dust boils in ribbed light,
coating our dark arms
and necks like flour from
another time, when we were boys
in Antigua, stealing gobs
of sweet dough from grandmother’s
kitchen as she tapped
her wooden spoon against
the cooking pot, broth furious
with chili peppers and chicken legs
knocking into themselves like drunks
learning to dance. Our sweat bleeds
into t-shirts and headbands
like money hidden in a mattress:
One more season and we can
go home. Though home was paved
clean years ago for couples
to glide fresh down stairwells
of cruise ships, their eyes
glittering like the emerald
beer bottles we hold up
at the end of the day, thirst
unslakeable, the pounding sun
relentless until it slips behind
the hills, flushing the air
violet and heavy with the sound
of their our breathing until
we squander what dreams
we have over cards, some
weathered dice, a repeating
scratch ticket that never pays
out, and are again flat
on our bunks exhausted,
barn ceiling gaped to offer
the erratic blink of a bat,
wisp of a cloud bathed
cataract in moonglow, until
the deep clanging we hear
is Mama rattling pans for breakfast
only in our dreams: foreman
striking the work bell in darkness
as we rise silent and repentant,
the great hot day nudging itself
back into our lives.

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