Poetry by Summer Edward
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Bim: Arts for the 21st Centuryvolume 3, number 2
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Wet Season Memories
The years have burst their drying pods,
cringing and flying like cotton before wind
and I forget about poui season in the hills.
I forget it is wet season in Trinidad
when rain in the morning sounds like so many tongues
prophesying the excitement of afternoon floods,
as branches palm greenly against galvanized roofs.
I forget the lighting-damp silences of nights,
the electric fan blowing away the mosquito room,
leaving only mango-filled windows, the moon
like a sky-jumbie bathing in the glass.
It has been ages since those drizzling Sundays
when we swam, together, through Tunapuna market,
hearing in the underwater a boy plugging poinsettias,
seeing thyme illuminated on chicken feed bags.
There must be life in these dried up memories,
some arable place left over from all those years
where I can plunge these withered dreams deep in water,
watch them bleed to life again.