Buxton Lady Under Lock Down
we would sit in the elephant ear of a marble queen,
icing dusting the skylight, listening to the wattle
wheezing through the atrium, the karaoke
tinkle of Ol’Virginny, Ol’ Kentucky Home inside
warm apple cider drunk, she’d say, “Those songs
we learnt in school, is only when I come I understand.
But I is from Kaywana stock; this place make you
more black. You must bring me some cocoa butter
when you coming next time,” rubbing Buxton spice;
we watched cars swish, slip, slurping past grey fingered trees
“Was a day like this that send me here; white, no headlights;
I didn’t see, nobody see, nobody say, nobody talk for me; he
burn like crisp; if wasn’t for my Buxton pride I dead already.”
but summer she was different; then we went out on Wheel-Trans.
“Look,” she says, “Imagine me who make with nail, tinin and
hammer, grater from scratch, buying coconut in frozen
quarter pound square pack. You know bout metamgee?
conkie? A tumbler of swank, Man, down the hatch!”
Then we would join the ladies for some checkers, bingo,
even take in the fashion show. “Is a man you know!
Wait till she start to strip. We ask the recreation people
for her every year.” And she shouting loud, “Go more!
Take off the shirt!” And bad talk Victor, her one and only son,
full of guile who just so, she-say-he-say, “Let’s go for a drive ...”
but she going back for her gold ring on the bureau
the Deceased Egbert give her. Now that was man!
“I could teach you the computer; you’ll like Facebook,”
“Unh-unh,” she said, “is a long long way to Tipperary.
Dawg a lay down, ashes cold.”
©Cynthia James 2012
About Cynthia James
Cynthia James is a Trinidadian, living for the past 3 years in Toronto. She writes poetry and fiction and her work can be found in publications such as Callaloo, Caribbean Writer and The Oxford Book of Caribbean Verse.
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