I You leave the North and Saint Lucia tries to kill you. The Barre de l’Isle is church, the bamboos are priests; they rub together and hum hosannas. The cliffs are strategic  and death is certain, but you are chosen. You drive through the lacerations and soon come upon

When pigs and cows become counterfeit roosters,  and Aunt whatever-her-name-is - it doesn’t matter - she’s sent a barrel, Christmas is here. Mum strips her house bare and  never-before-seen curtains are hoisted; Nen outs her new tablecloths: wooden castles more elaborate than a mother’s pride. Contemporary barter:

I fasten my tie in the reflection and my mother hollers what is her anthem now. The mirror breaks - and with it, the adopted whiteness. The shards are an archipelago: small, diverse, and they whisper a story. They whisper it in creoles - the Queen’s English liberated their