I knew from the day I met you, that every inch of you would be carved into my soul.
Writing Prompt: Carve
I had not been home to Jamaica in over a decade. In August 2015 I took a trip, and while there, visited Marcus Garvey’s house, which still stands atop a small hill, with the same ginep tree that was there when he was a child. I ate from that ginep tree and imagined Garvey climbing high to reach the sweetest ones.
Photo: Taken by me in front of Garvey’s house
There are days like today when the living ain’t easy. I sit in the back of the store—breakroom slash stockroom—waiting for things I cannot name. Boxes stacked to the ceiling containing gadgets to keep us entertained. Fluorescent lights hum. The clock ticks away each second of my life for minimum wage. I won’t be dishonest, a dollar more than minimum. I am still a slave without chains. The mental and spiritual shackles are hard and cold, holding me firm to an invisible wall deep inside invisible catacombs. There is no cask here. I am bricked in by this culture. It is wild and oppressive and no longer free. I want to melt coins, burn Franklins and Washingtons to ash, mix them to create magic wands to cast out demons and cast spells to bind the future of capitalism; forever.
The bulbs continue to buzz, the microwave hums, warming food for the one invading my space. She is tall and pencil thin, hair dyed Smurf-blue, voice like Rosie Perez. She doesn’t know that I want to save her from this place, this back room, cold and lonely, not fit for life. We are here because the melting and burning has not yet begun. Instead of a war cry to usher in the next revolution, she waits for a beep, so her radiated meal can soothe her. She eats away her minimum wage, unconcerned with the reality that she may live and die in a stockroom, somewhere on this continent, making less than the patriarchy that owns her life and lives well off her lack. Her Smurf-blue hair will have turned gray and white, her back low and knees pained; but she can’t stop because cat food is expensive these days and she needs to eat.
The light dims and flickers. A toilet flushes in the distance. Footsteps trace their way back to the front to greet an uneventful life, bloodied with microwave dinners, worn shoes, unpaid light bills and a life-dance without music.
Your whispers reach me across time. They find me standing on the edge of awakening. My dreams leave, then your dreams ask to enter the space of love that eases our pain. We go together, warriors of love, into the fields of Elysium. And there we plant ourselves in eternity, seeded and ready to incarnate once again, once again, once again, here. But the place we must wait is distant, taking us across vast barren land. We make love on the dry soil and our cries of ecstasy fertilize what was once dead. We water the land with our love-waters. Green things grow as our orgasms grow. We green the Earth with every drop of us. And life grows, inside and out. Elysium waits for us, again, somewhere off in the distance. It waits for everything we are; and the offering we brought forth from our love.