Capybara
1.
Cool and dead like long brown shoes
in an Akasic coffin with Efua beads,
rimmed like a nation of Baptist promises
and desirable bells, sapphire skin, thin skin of night.
Who hurried back to San Juan?
Whose right side of hip belonged to pleasure?
Who came
shuddering
in the dining room
on a black leather chair
deep in athletic water,
like hummingbirds
in black pitch bush
alone in the house of the Capybara?
And Trinidad,
pinpricked with departments
at the ministry of light,
push those waves of fizzing foam from your throat.
Your sister, waiting in those Hindu hills.
Her laugh, and see her airport uniform,
nestled in the footfall of that nauseous heaven.
Dust on the roof of time.
2.
Marie
of the Palestine.
Your subtle twitch, your very intention
remained in the church.
But your Deacon brews the turbulence
of an ill fitting Jesus,
and in Port of Spain
the cold Capybara’s brain is lifted up and eaten
Its eye still flash the flash eye
and I fall in love.
Venetian red is the latitude
of these cruel trees.