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pitennin the landscape has no life no habitation no memory until there is a grave/crib under it â Márquez/Solitude See also NourbeSe âMeditations on CowPastureâ he morning that i stir within the narrow compost of my grave miraculously ash space move around my head to open out my eye the eyelids sticking down some time until they opening That i cd lift my head and shouldersâ shadows find arms & legs to shift the crisp & sound- less wind-like gravel for more company. push myself forward up sit there w/in the dark of worms & soft-stones for a while my nose allowing me to breathe the sticky myrrh of frankincense and bones . and somehow light here too . and space . more space . to push my fingersâ hands up thru the coral up. ward up. ward until i break into the peace and ancient sunlight of my birth my one eye seeing all small axe 54 ⢠November 2017 ⢠DOI 10.1215/07990537-4271962 © Kamau Brathwaite Published by Duke University Press Small Axe SX54 [ 11.2017 ] 41 the green the grass the distant tattoos on the trunks of trees and then the trees themselves . their
Small Axe: A Caribbean Journal of Criticism – Duke University Press
Published: Nov 1, 2017
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