ink for this poem about leaving an island
old Tonton Macoutes fools mediocre sky
new Tonton Macoutes
nothing to eat
not even a single sun tree or mangrove in combite.
no dogs to chase away the excess
heralding your death’s arrival.
black ink at
crossroads made only of water this time
of wild-eyes and saltpeter and waves
bearing the thousand pieces of your cardboard breast
whatever floats negress
whatever makes this madness invisible.
the cemetery guardians have bulletproof vests
and you nothing
not even a heron rises to the sky to
make it rain on the yawl.
it would be a seaweed kiss
a little bed like the moss between your thighs
when there is not even a tear left to drink.
not even ink