October 8 – Church of Our Lady of Gifts, Avignon France (1st Century) founded by St. Martha

‘…Thirsty

For human blood and corpses

In our woods and our ravines

Roams a monster, a scourge of the gods… Have mercy!

The beast has a dragon’s tail

And eyes redder than cinnabar;

On its back, its scales and spikes are terrifying!

It has the muzzle of a great lion,

And six human feet, to run faster;

Into its cavern, under a rock

Overlooking the Rhone, it carries all it can….’

 The Beast of the Camargue by Xavier-Marie Bonnot

Let the Dead Stay Buried

I sense you about to move before you do and pull you deeper.
Words rain from your lips, running together like worship:
powerfulserpentinesexyblackgoddesswhosenameihaveforgotten.

You, Georgia boy, rocking against my rolling waves,
must never know the dark sea depths,
must never see the waters receding, the dry ocean bed,
the nocturnal table rising from the ocean floor,
demons sitting aloft eating some unholy sacrifice,
or is it ancestors feeding an ancient spirit thing?

Why should I tell you      who have never been womanislandblack?
You, beautiful blackman, not yet tired of my taste in your mouth
why should I tell you:
I am the daughter of generations of hurt island women,
harnessing terrible seeds inside my womb.
There is deadly history hidden in my depths, hungry ghosts
seeking vengeance for past wrongs.

A rag-tag carnival of cane-cutters parade on our bedroom wall
with bloody, shredded backs, severed tongues and shattered hearts.
Dark women bending, washing rape babies away with bush medicine,
and the last time I told my history (looking for a little tenderness)
it was met by more of the same.

There are Tsunamis that I hold at bay          for my sake and for ours.

Yet, when you tell me, with that strangely troubling smile,
“My three-times-great-grandmother was the massa’s wench,”
I think you may know more than I give you credit for.

But it is early dawn yet, no need for you to experience
the nocturnal sea’s churning nor feel Mami Wata’s tail
brushing against your thighs in slumber,
only my smooth round bottom beneath your roaming hand.
What need have you to know more than your eyes can see?

I am who you see and more, a natural black woman
with tight curls and ample curves.
What does it matter whose spirit lives in me? Those I have called
and those I have not.
I will be your island woman, Uncomplicated. Your Caribbean queen.
The woman you wait up nights for with a glass of sweet red,
feeding me light salads and seafood because it is late
and you scold, half-joking: Baby, you need to come early.
Never mind, I know you Jamaicans need your ten jobs!
(A generational joke we share, seeking common ground, however flimsy.)

And I, who in this green of love, am never too full to eat all you can cook up,
swallow yuh until yuh dry             womansweat                marveling.
I sit full saddle, knees spent, laughing down into your face.

I will be the one you waited for, a new sea change.
Bringing fresh fish and nourishing algae, soft undulating waves
and a light spray of seawater to wash off past misfortunes.
Why bother the unknown creatures on the ocean floor?

by Donna Aza Weir-Soley