The Island

My island slept for years in the care Of Tainos, Caribs and Arawak Their canoes on the sea breast bare Dreaming of milk from manioc The swamps unscarred, trees secure Batos and songs rinsed in the azure. Then came doom laden caravels came Prancing with Conquistadores Their swords to slaughter, then to shame The Ave Marias slutted by whores Whose blazing balls of canons denied The sufficient death of the crucified. My island was the Mary Magdalene held For ransome in the frying lust For gold, the continental wars spelled A trembling virginity in the dust A lost of idyllic grace, where bloody men Sowed the evil inherited again and again. From Spanish to French, Spanish to British How callous is all history A spectre publishing the marginal brutish Shrivelled glory of identity. And still my Mary, her alabastor box a gift This tropic wonder, this lignum vitae of thrift From empty tomb to broken hearted disciple Evanglizes the Mahoe dawn Over the Blue Mountain where peace ripple On the motto, still the fawn In the forest brings the stag to court This island stands ready to file a good report.