Feast in Harris Village 

The pig dips its bristled head

in acquiescence.

They draw the ropes tight

across the beam. And

haul. One eye rolls white

and wild in terror.

The knife is fine-sharp, blue-sharp,

slipping into the flesh.

Its trotters rake the air as

the breath hisses out.

They catch the blood 

in a galvanized bucket.

The women sit on the back step,

easing the damp clutch

of their cotton skirts

away from their thighs.

Curtains bell on the washing lines.

Mildred tufts open green nuts

with her cutlass.

Later, one musician will hitch

a congo drum into his crotch.

Knuckle its skin gently

and murmur a pleasure song,

as they wait

                        As they wait.

The dancers, old Africans

down from Gasparillo,

grim under the ancestors’ yoke,

sap their heads with Limacol

as they take the beat

                        And take the beat.

Then, under the flambeaux,

Africa will come to cradle them

in her cupped hands.