Christine Craig
A writer through and through, Christine is a poet, and university professor and published author
In a chic apartment high above the waterfront
an irritable intellectual looks over
the streets of Kingston, labels it definitively
Dante’s Inferno. His book lined walls stand
an army of soldiers to protect his troubled
sleep, yet he plans another flight. He can’t
stay, too provincial, violent, threatening.
He can’t quite leave either.
Estelle irons khaki and navy
blue for school tomorrow.
Need a school shoes for Rosie.
A which part Sam gone. Dem
so sweet when dem a hunt you
down and swift as chicken hawk
fe gone when dem get you.
Seem like gone is a word spell wid
a m and a a and a n.
Estelle fights her way in
the mini-bus, uptown to look
a work. No work. Me can sew
you know mam. No work. Me can
bake an cook and clean floor
till you see you face inna it.
No work. Estelle with housekeeping
skills and no house to keep
only empty cupboards, cold stove
and children soon reach home hungry. Swallow you pride girl
go see you sister Norma.
You know say she a go harass
out you soul case but blood
thicker dan water.
Mornin Norma, how you keepin?
Norma is keeping an office job
and church on Sunday looking
for a fine up-right man. Norma
is studying books at night school
and every day planning how
to move up, how to talk good
so nobody will know seh
is Jones Town she coming from.
What happen Estelle, you see
me name bank? When you a lie down
wid different man you don’t tink
bout how you a go manage.
Estelle, star of heartbreak
prefers learning the no job
pavements step by step, edging
past the mad sculptor who creates
with boxes and signs, with old shoes
and rags carefully shaped round
a leafless tree. Walking home
with dollar cornmeal and Marley
catching at the edges of her mind
who feel it knows it Lord.
Weep, weep for us women on the streets
of Kingston. Weep for our children
hungry, angry in this town that blooms
large houses, smooth lawns where other
children play computer games and plan
the next trip to Miami.
Weep but also watch Estelle, dark star
in an anguished sky. No poem
no politics, no church, no way to close
this wound only an endless searching
seeking to meet ourselves
greet ourselves, honorably.