by Jasmine Janelle Royer
She walks with her head suspended in tree canopies,
never casting her eyes below the silver lining
of the existence her God displays for her as she
wakes to meet the sun, come morning.
She is a brown angel glowing from within
the deep base of a body sighing from strength
when her forearms swell up with power
while she washes rag pon
De bucket. While her slender hands
are guided by Jehovah when she weaves.
While she cradles life in her palms;
a Caribbean whirlwind of irie,
She smiles when fiyah fi burn, an’ rain fi soothe
the aches in her belly after she laughs
like the character’s in 90’s shows,
like there was no trolly only for island girls
and Africans on their way to clean the conscience
of the White women who
would sign their papers for servitude
over college letters in her ragged time.
Like she was not struck by the hands of men who wanted her to blacken
because their egos were bruised, and they knew
laughter would save her.
Like she didn’t have my mother cradled
within her belly, nor my uncles to follow, leaving her
with warrior scars on her hips and breasts
that lay like fine layered silk upon her slender physique.
And I admire to this day
how her legs carry slats of brick when she moves.
Graceful and full of how the world has seasoned her for 70 lives.
She is hearty like plantain and porridge on Sundays, and her face
Still carries the cunning, sexy smirk of a playful maiden.
And the sunspots speckle her like seeds,
her curly vines loop pon her head like a crown, adornments
nature has decorated her with. And she has the scars
and loving weariness in her eyes
that comes from being a martyr and a mother.
And this brown angel walks amongst us,
she is our grandmother, our Caribbean Angel.