Progress in Pages

Koumansman/Beginning

Our story began
with calloused hands,
wielding shovels,
dreams carried
on the backs
of working people.

We learned early
that progress is written
with the oily sweat of farmers
who rise avan laba kasé,
that progress is spoken
in the silent prayers of mothers
assou dé jounou –

Bondyé, ou yonn sav –

that progress sits among leaders
who remember this story. 

This, my people,
is the book of our labour.
Turn the page.

Chapit Yonn/Chapter One

Helen:
How remarkable you are.
Zédjwi èk fil in hand,
you sewed pieces of
your red, beating heart
into the minds of your children,
atrium meshing with hemisphere,
ventricle and nerves,
you taught them what you learned:

The world is cruel;
Alé lékòl, apwann;
Mété Jési douvan ou;
Fè lapé.

Timid candlelight
illuminating homework paper,
soon gave way to starlight paths:
teachers, doctors, lawyers; the trades
multiplying from the single-woman, Eve-like.

Chapit Dé/Chapter Two

Helen:
We downed the Union Jack,
hoisted the Cerulean Standard.

Two decades later,
the wisdom of your hems
tightly knotted in our minds,
our chests puffed broadly, saying
to the cruel, great world:

Mi mwèn.
Mwen wivé.
Mwen sé ich Helen. 

Chapit Twa/Chapter Three

Helen:
Today,
still bold as Walcott’s verse,
precocious as Lewis’ theory,
still high as Jacquot’s eye –

your children walk
the starlit course;
chapters to be written
by hands,
like ours,
dark, molasses,
like ours,
steady and sure.

We have turned the page,
the story writing itself,
every line still begins
with us, after you.