Streets edgy with musty mystique,

fried sprat swallow acrid smells

of smoking guns cooking in hidden vaults.

Overgrowth chokes greener yard memories,

while Garvey's words fall leaden

in bulleted bodies. We step over,

rubbing flesh for no other reason

than spiking spice from seasonings

on the skin. Babies swim through

potholes damming dreams

in their coloured morass; hot springs

from concrete gaping wide

exhaust hope.

The woman pitches the wash water far

into the yard, she crows,

to cool down the day's tempers,

rippling innocent spirits yet unborn.

END

- Sonja Harris

-----------

Not alone

Rich secret tides

purl and tug inside me,

a haven for you, my baby,

until I can marvel

at your perfect fingers, and a face

like a recently minted coin.

Forgive me the salty trail

that flows down to you

and the too-insistent

pressure of my hands.

My sorrow is tempered

by feeling you move

and knowing

I am not alone.

END

- Kimmisha Thomas

---------------

Dandelion heads

Out loud, a floating sentiment

like dandelion heads; I press my lips

to fingertips, then blow you away,

away, a floating dandelion head.

We watch the smallness of befuddled words

and wonder where these go,

slaved cargo transported in my bosom's hull.

When did we trade them, and for what?

The days gamboled, bodies mused and were mislaid

till who can tell which limbs belonged to whom?

Only the whites of their eyes are paired,

rolling in sockets, blank dice thrown.

How have we beheld these unsures alone?

Once in the jaw of a wordless night, we steered

our hands towards each other, the Calabash Bay

kneading the splinters of shells into stars.

Then we chanced to grapple human barbs.

Perhaps God blowing dandelion heads

gave me the falling will to jump at more.

And yet calendar leaves have autumn, too,

and through their seasons consciously renew

the thought of you, the promise we will write;

But when? To find words, begin again

I wonder, while silence worms you away,

will love unravel like a memory's stitch

pulled too hard, too often?

I feel a sway, like wine sipped too fast;

my dandelion head comes floating out of the past

and tugs on my promise's thin string

anchored to a sentimental phrase.

Let us wait for the fragile thing to brake

and ponder where the bay's wind might take

two misguided parachutes that dared

to lunge into the desperate grey,

Dragged by the stiff tow of too few words

away, away,

we land somewhere in the cracks

that dandelions know.

END

- Millicent Graham

------------

Unholy sonnet

I remember the bitch hurt upon hearing

the news, the bite of pain, the sharp stabs

from the knife of sorrow, the kind that grabs

the numbed heart and rents it, tearing

it like her veil after the jeering

crucifixion of Christ. So the heart drags

the body painfully along the slabs

of acceptance, with or without it fearing.

And then the vinegar of spite and the thorns

of guilt. And the lashes of hate

that stain the flesh long afterwards, on a morn

when you recall how, in spite of your faith,

you could not stop such news. Yet the norm

of life now is to succumb to such a fate.

END

- Nicholas Alexander