EXCERPT

Last Yanique Nation

The pit in my womb where the doctor lover

says is my self, is not a nation

My soul is called Che, as in Guevara,

but my body has not died for the nation

I told my enemy I loved her, as

I love my nation Guevara,

was no coward which means he tended towards 

fool I want to be a fool in love and thus 

a fool for this nation My soul doesn’t 

care about nations My soul makes its country 

in the backyard or bedroom of wherever 

I carry it. My islands do not make 

a nation.  Yet my soul guards 

their bodies, their waters. That then 

is the nation. Yes, the pink pit

does bear the possibility of nations.

Che rests its teeth into my belly. I feel 

the love and remember Guevera, 

the man, had no nation but nations 

He died for the end of our nations 

I speak my soul’s only language, dear 

doctor revolutionary, in the name 

of no nation Despite the proxy 

of vows I am both body and nation.

Dangerous Things

This is the island. 

It is small and vulnerable, 

it is a woman, calling. You love her

until you are a part of her 

and then, just like that 

you make her less than she was 

before—the space 

that you take up is a space where she cannot exist

It is

something in her history 

that does this

Don’t mind 

her name The island 

is a woman Therefore, 

dangerous things live below

Beautiful things, also—which can be the most dangerous.

True, we will never be 

beyond our histories.

And so I am the island. 

And so this is a warning.

Traditional Virgin Islands Wedding Verse

When you are born

you are passed to your father’s arms 

or your mother’s chest. 

Your parents claim you. You belong 

to them. Before you even know 

you are your own, 

you know that you are 

someone else’s. You are 

bonded. You need to belong.

Then you belong 

to the land, the town 

in which you are raised. You belong 

to the city you choose. 

These places have a hold 

on you. They claim you. 

I am from, you say. 

I am of.

Perhaps you belong 

to the school. To the church. 

You say I am, and name 

what you do for sustenance. 

These things own you and 

you own them.

You are part of a tribe. 

It is not a shackle. It is the true story 

of self-creation. 

It is what makes you. 

You come to belong to yourself.

You say I am 

and call your own name.

And now 

you belong 

to each other. 

You are of the same tribe. 

I am his wife, 

you will say; and 

I am her husband. 

You are future ancestors of 

the same village.

And you have made this so 

by your own choice.

You will weld yourself 

with regard to each other

and because of each other. 

You will weave your own self 

to the other. You are now native

to each other. You say

I am 

yours. 

I claim you.