Hope absent from the Door—
last point of departure,
home to all they’ve known.
The child is exchanged for a
mirror, its mother a bottle of
rum, and the man a gun.
Atlantic sharks that wouldn’t
eat every day or even choose
humans swallow samples.
Taste buds are forever changed,
millions of years reversed;
they grow fat following ships.
Bodies that cross and land
meet a similar fate in trees,
attract buzzards and crows.
But why do clear skies like
St. Kitts’s bouncing off blue
waters make me sick?
Here where we are, snow drips
on our doorstep, falling like the
saddest note carrying our tune.