Long, lazy lunches
months and years of moments and memories
rising with the steam from curry chicken
and white rice and “food”
since yuh never fly back fi eat nutten but boil dumplin and yam.
Your locs
thick, loose, free-born
groomed on rainwater and sunlight
tucked under your favourite tam
while mine, stretched from crochet needles and wrapped tight in a bun
show the relative realms of our corporate worlds.
Topics ebb and flow through the palate of identities we walk through
of church
of God
of how the two don’t always intersect
of relationships
of classism and social politics
of being in Jamaica, but not of it
in the strange way that homeless-less-ness creates
when you leave bits of your heart in too many places you can't visit or live in again.
Memories lounge on a tilted passenger seat
during a parked-car therapy session
outside your sister's house in Vineyard Town
after another night of embracing the italism and natural mystic
the art and vibes and flow
that traditional church spaces never held in their wineskins
sitting shoulder to shoulder
like soldiers in the barracks
suddenly engulfed and ambushed
silently braving the new age spiritualism that started summoning ancestors
during what should have been a simple poetry show.
Memories of you
stronger than I
seeing the torn garter and the pulled hem
the stained lace and loose thread
under the bride's frock
and choosing to stay and serve when my patience wore thin
and how we still “kept the link”
even though Sunday mornings
would no longer see us together.
Memories chew, savour, swallow
another bite of curry chicken
that tastes as warm and as mellow
as a good medz
and a clean heart.
Missing you my friend,
missing you….