The Wake

I Started To Write Poetry Again
By Molly Wick

One bored night in a hot sticky flat
On a small, strange island
Between reality and a dream
Between Africa and a immense expanse of nothing but wind and water
Underneath a cosmic ceiling of pinhole stars and shooting boots
I started to write poetry again
Because here there is nothing else but
Beach and sun and salty air and salty water
And also the people with their coffee skin and ebony hair
Husky bon soir’s on the street and crow’s-feet eyes with a twinkle
Women in stunning colors of gold and red and turquoise dressed for the market
One carrying her basket and gathering folds of wispy fabric at her belly
As she flip-flops down the broken concrete streets
Not to mention the miles and miles of a single plant
A single row of sugarcane that jaunts across the island
Pauses for a square peach home with white gingerbread-house icing
And again it goes lazily following ruddy ditches and neighbor rows
I started to write poetry again pondering what life means to this person
Who can’t live a day without
The almost sacred heart-racing forehead sweating mouth burning piment
With enough baguettes to cover the island just for lunch
I started to write poetry again doubting I could ever capture
The exhausting water and salt I’ve breathed for three months
The cool sweet brew of amber foam glistening under twinkling torches
At an al fresco bar with bamboo bar stools, a wooden barbeque hut and gravel ground
I started writing poetry again thinking of the Southern Cross
Hanging over an island so far from earth
Stars curling in an arc as the night slides past
Glossy and silent with frogs croaking in the lawn
I started writing poetry again one lonely night in Mauritius
The country falling asleep outside
Pondering the people, at home in their beds
Green coils glowing in the corner to kill mosquitoes
Buzzing through the night towards the light
Searching, ever hunting for the one sweet red liquor that means life can continue
While ocean waves lap at the edges of not just an island but an entire society
Caught between reality and a dream
Caught between tradition and wealth
Dangling from both but securing neither
I started to write poetry again to describe what I have seen and sensed
But I realized it is an island of feelings, sensations, and mannerisms
An aura created from hints, notions, ironies, and premonitions
An island of quirks and whims
So, I gave up on poetry.