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Slave Quarter
By Gillian Conoley
The French windows
have been left
ajar, curtained
with new lace-shadowing
the zinc-white sink.
Not because the slave quarter
is turned apartment,
painted pink like crepe myrtle
or rotting watermelon,
but because Royal Street
needs a paint job, the ghosts of
slaves
have begun to move.
With their dignity,
their unfinished gestures.
With aprons
the women run
to catch black chips
falling off balconies
like an oily rain. Men stand
with their buckets, but the wind
pours
from the rooftops,
tossing everything
out of reach.
It will be years
until the sun throws back
its sequined mask
and we party,
we carnival. Centuries
until the hound's voice
is silenced
in the taxi's horn.
They are going to lie down
next to us
as if nothing has happened.
And we are going to sit
a long time
with our vast wonder and fear,
looking down at them,
waiting for their carved faces
to let us in.
Source: Some Gangster Pain (1987) |