Once Upon a Time in Jamaica

Once, we ran through mango orchards
warm sweet juice drizzled down our legs
as we climbed the falls of Dunn’s river
and stumbled down the hill
to see grandma popping corn,
and dogs chasing me through the narrow streets,
of a country bordered by the sea.

Upon, new floors creaking with grandma’s small feet,
brother and I play hide and seek
in a state with three sides of sea.
Our toy-littered beds become our hiding spot
as we create stories to seek out the creatures
that lurked within the Everglades.
Doors lock with the fearful key of the new;
the outside world turns into nothing more but yellow grass and rainy skies.

A young me sweeps red paint across pages upon pages
Of yellowing collages of newspaper clippings and portraits.
Sitting at my easel, I scribe words in black
That fades into the blinding orange shades of days
That will never end, unless I take my hand away
And throw blue and green paint into the gray picture outside.

Time’s hands flicks away the blank sheets before us.
As the green grass outside the window
beckons us to come and play,
as mangoes begin to age
and floors no longer creak but sing epics
of foreign grandmothers who no longer pop corn.