Tonight, I Go to Bed
Tonight, I go to bed
(for Derek Walcott)
(for Derek Walcott)
with images of Maria Concepcion in my head,
and Walcott beckoning from the edge of the sea
with honey dripping from the tips of his fingers.
Today the stars are bright in my eyes because they’re right,
the sea is calm with satisfaction.
Across the bay, black women swagger to the beat of calypso,
signalling me to come with obscene, half-incredible signs.
Boats sway in the dark like grief lanterns on a river in Japan
after a quake. It is time to come out
and tell the truth of who we really are.
I do my coming out the moment sleep touches me,
and today’s hopes merge with tomorrow’s dream,
and there’s a glimpse of light at the end of my tunnel
with the absolute serenity of the dead. Tonight I go to bed
with a smile on my face, as I think of the goddess of Spring
whom I met when I was a young man, and who now sleeps
beside me in my room, of Walcott and his guardian angel
following him from island to island in his grey pirogue,
its oars tossing the dark green salad of the sea.
I think of the glint in his eye, like a sun off water,
and because he looks at me I ask him, in my language, for his secret:
ke kopa lekunutu la hao, ntate, but he only smiles,
his head white like his egrets, like ash from wood
that more than once has served, fragrance, light, warmth,
given with no regrets. Together they head off in solidarity,
his hand brushing the hem of her dress as he rows them
to liberty, where words grow like fruit on trees
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