In the end, tree, a cloudy shelter will come 
to cover your dry, aged branches.

It will lend you, short on green,
the white glow of its weightlessness

As a drop undoes the cloud into tears
I’ll tell my children:
no, the tree didn’t die,
your childhood sun has set.

^{translated from the Kreyòl by Danielle Legros Georges}

In what language should I speak to you
when the words beneath our sheets
blow over my belly

life has me holding a grudge
pouring coffee on my recollections
not revealing where the moon finds its water

When children cry
and won’t stop
one after the other the words dry up
in the palm of my hand
not letting me baptize the dark

Believe me 
I don’t know what you are:
A navel that’s lost its cord in the midst of a poetry book?
A hibiscus flower with a sickly eye?
A bird with its wings pinned to its back?
I was surprised by you
I didn’t know who you were
Today your mouth’s upturned
This shout, louder than your pain

       ***

In what language should I speak to you
when prayer kneels before poverty
and our daughters fly kites 
by the cathedral
sick of washing their marbles
in the vestry

Believe me
I don’t know your name
when a ten-year-old beggar
undresses his hunger beneath the statue of Saint Anne
each grain of rice leaving a scar on our skin

       ***

The wind takes a break to make us drunk
we carry it on our backs
our way is rugged 
In what language should I speak to you
when the sun loses its way

Believe me
I don’t remember what hurts me most
I stand on tiptoe to gather stars
that capsize never to rise again
Love has lost its name 
continents don’t remain steady
one wild day, we’ll meet
without my knowing who you are

Plidetwal

Nan ki lang pou m pale avè w
Lè pawòl anba dra
Pase souf li sou vant mwen

lavi kenbe m nan kè
koule kafe nan memwa m
li pa di m kote lalin bwè dlo

Lè timoun ap kriye
san rete
youn apre lòt mo yo seche
nan pla men m
san yo pa ban m tan pou m batize fènwa

Kwè m si ou vle
mwen pa konn ki sa ou ye
Yon lonbrit ki pèdi kòd li nan mitan liv pwezi
Yon flè choublak ki gen malozye
Yon zwazo ak zèl li mare dèyè do l
Mwen pantan sou ou
san m pa t konnen kilès ou ye
Jodi a bouch ou tètanba
Rèl sa a pi gwo pase doulè w

       ***

Nan ki lang pou m pale avè w
lè lapriyè met ajenou devan lamizè
Pitit fi n ap monte kap
bò katedral
Yo bouke lave grenn mab
anndan sakristi

Kwè m si ou vle
M pa konn ki jan ou rele
lè yon ti pòv dizan
dezabiye grangou l nan pye Sentàn
chak grenn diri kite yon mak sou po n

       ***

Van an kabicha pou l fè nou sou
nou pote l sou do
chimen nou kalboso
nan ki lang pou m pale avè w
lè solèy la 
bliye wout li

Kwè m si ou vle
m pa sonje sa k fè m pi mal
m kanpe sou pwent pye pou m ranmase zetwal
yo chavire yo pa janm remonte
Lanmou pèdi papye l
kontinan pa ret anplas
yon jou sovaj na rankontre
san m pa mande ki moun ou ye

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.