April 2025

When Ovid drives the Buick, it is from one sharp end
          of Boston to the Cape—as if he must escape the city’s hull, its concrete ribs.
                           Light rain in the wind whiplashes our faces with
the cruel erotics of winter.
It is the weekend two antlered elks crashed
into the Charles River
                       like a shock of meteorites. Ovid wheels the car across
a …

At this point, I don’t know what in me is Jamaican
versus American. Or, reaching further back,
Trinidadian, Venezuelan, African, Scottish, English ...
you get the drift. I thought every mickle mek a muckle
was from Kingston soil sprung, until in Edinburgh
I heard it in the mouth of a Scotsman. For years, I filed
my grandmother’s doudou…