Breath of These Islands
Unholy and uncountable, as the dead coral
sparkling beneath the coconut-water-ocean,
cloudy and full of the remnants of the things
we think will make we healthy. We slake
Goa Stones from salt water, fish bone
and sea moss, iron anchor, the ash
of the dead enslaved, paint from Nuestra Señora
de las Maravillas, gleaming in the body
of a barracuda. We slice a bit off, stir it in
with we morning tea, soak we johnny bread
slathered with butter and guava jam in the cup,
the taste drags we down, to the bottom,
of the sea.
The Griot Speaks a Hymn to the Wild Deep
In and out of darkness
you come grand
rising out of the secret
places from the silo
of souls calling
the names of your ancestors to life
remember
the light when it leaves
isn’t an escape but a summoning
over field, mountain, sea over-
grown backyard back to the place
you call home to the mango
and tamarind trees to the hole
in the yard where the plum tree used to stand
the avocado replaced it
remember when
you was a fire and you
did take the cut-
lass to the banana tree
cut it down to
nothing but the ground
and you punch the wall three time
and wasn’t it good
to lay in the grass outside wasn’t it better
to run outside naked
in the rain remember
when you plant that tomato in the front yard
you sang to it till ya voice run hoarse
and didn’t you almost catch
one royal poinciana
fashion it with
ya own hands
make a temple
for the summer
from hard rock
soil and sunlight a sea
green house on limestone
land ~
and if it was
brought to vision
wouldn’t you have been out there
on the heated days lazing under
the shade of a good body of foliage formed
into a green tabernacle
and you know it would’ve been a wonder
a wonder of the whole world but now
when ya come flying down
down to see
the island there een no grass to greet ya
by the front door no frangipani prancing on
the aqua wall and even the crab
grass gone back to thirsty lonesome soil
so ya take ya hands to the earth
do what ya grandparents did show ya when you was one
lil boy ya start with the simple things
slice the sediment with a cutlass
plant back the wild-
bush make the yard
into your African Hospital ring the yard
in the most salty man-
grove make a space for the sea-
grape trees plant fever-
grass and sheppard needles
put some aloes down
to let the obeah return
to the land ~
then you make
an orchard of tropical delights
husband a grove for all the fruitin’
trees a litany of sweet tings
the tastes
of mango
sourope an’ mami
tambrin sugar-apple an’ co-co plum
mix in the guava hog plum
an’ dilly
don’t forget to add the
hog banana guinep and breadfruit
then You let the Wild Deep grow
let it go wild runnin’
let it deluge the whole damn place
from South Beach to Lyford Cay
in verdant
re-creation
of land.
Ide Amari Thompson (he/they) is a Black and queer Caribbean writer from Nassau, Bahamas. They have a poetry MFA from UMass Amherst and are a 2024–25 Tin House Reading Fellow. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in PREE, Intersect Antigua, Poetry, Caribbean Quarterly, Conduit, and Black Warrior Review, among others. They are currently pursuing an MA–PhD in English at Penn State.