#pommerac

Darting flies leave red blotches the size of a quarter. A man sleeps wrapped inside a palm frond on the side of a dusty road. Cows bawl all night long for their masters. The birds wake you with their cries. Even the sea heaves with sighs. All is calling. Will you leave this dengue plateau? The hills of Laventille wither beneath a moon that beats back the darkness of the plain. Shadows call her name to a lightening sky. Forebearance forgets. Blank sheets of rain bruise bougainvillea. Against hope and the force of the sea you weave her face in the sand, the mask memory leaves you.

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R. Erica Doyle