Christine Craig
A writer through and through, Christine is a poet, and university professor and published author
My boy is on the brink of disaster
prey to violent media, nasty,
noisy music, claws snatching
pulling him out to the streets
the compulsions, doors opening
and closing quietly at night
the lies, the excuses
the mutters and slouches
the friends who won’t
look you in the eyes
the schoolwork not done
and the mother
tense, red eyed,
talking, pleading, shouting
tears, prayers.
Her boy is falling, but she can’t let him go.
She won’t let him go.
I breathed with his first breath
I laughed with his first smile
he is the brightest and best
my sweet morning star.
The mother spread her net
called out the prayer warriors
those stalwart women
beating down tumult and adversity.
Those grey-haired men, who walked
the same path, others always steady
in their faith. She called them all
called them out and they too spread their nets.
There is no strength like the might
of Jamaican women – can’t bend it, break it
or throw it in the fire. There’s no fight
like the fight of Jamaican men
who have chosen to walk in the light.
Weeks, months but they stood, stood firm.
One night, it all roared and crashed in his brain
he fell, struggling, fighting the pain in his heart
in his head, the agony streaming
in his blood, till he felt the power
found the strength to save his life.
The mother smiles all day
love and joy bright in her eyes.
Give thanks my friends.
My boy was on the brink of disaster
but we wouldn’t, we couldn’t
we didn’t let him go.