A boy on the Babylon bus to country throw his empty bag-juice
through the window. His mother floor so clean, you
could eat rice and peas off it
and she home-train him good because he know better
than to soil up his good-shirt with bag syrup after it wash and
bleach so long on the zinc.
But listen judgment.
The juice-bag land in the Garden of Jah,
covering the mouth of an angel’s trumpet flowers
three days and three nights it stay, till
a breeze of remembrance blow it out to the beach where it
a piece of red thread and
the condom that Roderick, the coconut wata man, did dash-wey after he
Up by the road, Ras Haile-I on his bicycle chants this song, boil your wata/ if you have to
And the bag with Roderick juice still in it, catch
a blue wave and ride froth at the tail-end of a fisherman’s boat
out to a school of rainbow-colour fish, one of them
so foolish as to yawn.
Later a woman named after a book of hunger,
pick up the dead fish wash up on the beach,
slits its side,
to clean it for her children’s dinner.
boil your wata/ if you have to
That’s when she find it Roderick’s condom.
In the fish-belly.
“But see here!”
Somewhere the juice bag still floats in the sea wondering
at the fool-foolishness of fish and
Roderick babymother searches for a piece of red thread and
a boy’s mother rakes up mango leaf and makes the yard a holy scripture.