" The Haitian Inside"
Always there is a woman
one with history
beating under the rib of my bone.
She is not white
like my skin. Night
covers the moon
and I am different.
Somehow
I am a young girl
in the fields of sugar
cane, a clay bird saying--
sing white one, sing.
I’ve returned home,
a tourist in her own land.
Witchdoctors climb towers of glass,
black roads coil and hiss.
I am not known.
Always I am this woman,
a black heart opening like coal.
Ben Ne Swall Ta Nell.
No, I am known.
© 2003 Treezaa (T. E. Ballard)
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