nappy-headed, dust-kneed, forming a litany from
your mouthful of names: Angelina Carmelita Petronella
Machado. Mother.
Rosary blow-mouth full of incantation
and necessity, never speaking of that other harvest failing,

that buss-ass Madeira harvest
forcing farmers to become sailors and board ships
where crucifixes rusted on collar-salt bones.
No. Just gee-up that donkey-cart there and tell us tales

of a mer-woman washed up on some fresh-water creek in Demerara
with the know-how of transforming fins into feet.