poem in the absence of refuge
for Jesula Gelin, Vanessa Previl, & Monique Vincent
who can blame you for leaving on foot,
for choosing a twenty-mile walk instead
of traffic? i imagine the three of you
haggling with merchants all day at the market,
parleying over the price of plantains & kenepes
but a felled bridge is a willful negotiator.
when the tap tap failed to bring you across,
you trusted your feet to finish the job,
but ten miles in, the sun started setting.
stuck between Leveque & Port-Au-Prince,
i imagine your relieved faces when you saw a cousin
emerge from the shadow of an unfamiliar house,
his hands welcoming you in. the decision was easy
after hours of walking & watching the midday sun
morph crescent moon, the stars: a black & white photo
of wind-blown sand lifting off an upturned palm.
his porch light must’ve seemed like a beacon
from the chill. i want to talk about what happened
next, but i’ll let the news recount the betrayal.
i do not want this poem to be about violence
or about how ignorance can cut a limb from a family tree.
forgive me, i’ve said too much. we are not kin. i know
your family business is still your business
no matter how cruel. can we talk about the market
instead? Vanessa, did you find your favorite fruit
for a good price? did you hold it like a child
rolling sea glass in its palms for the first time?
Monique, did you stumble across a wedding dress?
did you imagine you & your fiancé, newlywed,
& swaying to the vibrations of Sweet Mickey?
Jesula, did you buy your kids tablet pistache?
did you picture their sweet-toothed smiles,
elated & gobbling each peanut-filled piece?
forgive me for asking all these questions.
i was not tasked with writing your elegies
nor can i pull you from deception’s throat.
instead, let us call this poem a poem
where you are still three women
sifting through produce & planning dinner
or ruminating on faith & the faithless,
where you hold an alphabet in your hands,
stringing sentences across the air
like cursive on loose-leaf, trading church gossip,
or complaining about the kids, or sharing big dreams.
in this poem, no one will call you djab
or lougarou because they cannot
translate the language your hands make.
if you want, consider these words a shelter,
one with a porch light that will never go out,
one where no one will mistake your laughter
for anything but laughter: joyous music
filling the crevices of each line.
MCKENDY FILS-AIMÉ is a New England based Haitian-American poet, organizer, and educator. He is the runner-up of the 2024 Granite State Poetry Prize and has received fellowships from the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop and Cave Canem. Mckendy’s work has appeared in American Literary Review, Bellingham Review, The Shore, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. His debut poetry collection, Sipèstisyon, is forthcoming on YesYes Books.