West Indian Woman Speaks from the Dead

Is five years now I dead
and my husband does still go
to de Old Years party wit them
good looks dat beat all cockfight.
Surrounded by his old time partners—
stink mout men full of old talk—
he sip his ponchacrema
while they talk talk talk
like they eat parrot bottom.
Smellin of sweet soap and bay rum,
vein full of barbadine and beat pan,
my husband so short, eh
you could drink soup on his head,
and he could win any limbo contest
in Port of Spain with a back
straight like bamboo shoot!

Eh eh—I see Mags Carmichael
in the corner ova so givin he plenty
sweet eye, still tinkin he go want she
with that breath like stinkin foot—
and the rest of the widows circling he
like the blades of a win’ mill, waggin
dey bumsees like force ripe schoolgirls
as he shuffle his foot to old time Calypso,
sway his hips to Parang and close
he eye to all meh favorite tunes.
But watch he nuh!
He mus be still love meh too bad.

Everybody tink he forget meh,
cause he’s never visit meh grave
but does come to every lime,
hair slick back like a Dougla
and shoes well shine.
Let de cock bottom widows tink
he’s come to watch them wine
they waists and dance like oil
in a hot pan.
My husband damn well know
that I ain’t never miss a good fete
a day in my life, and something
as chupid as death will not
change that.

Just a few ticks till the New Year
and I know he waiting for meh to come
and dance wit he like in the old days.
On like boil corn.
He standin up there in the middle
of the fete wit he eye closed,
head back and croonin
down de place in his whiny whiny falsetto.
I drift ova and stand up tall-tall
in front of he like cobweb broom.
He open he eye and look through
meh oxygen breast and hydrogen hips.
He hold his wedding hand up
in the air and I press meh god body
against he and I take it
as he drape he other arm across
where the small of my back should be
and we dance just so
into another new year.