Tonight, I go to bed
with images of Maria Concepcion in my head,
and Walcott beckoning from the edge of the sea
with honey dripping from the tips of his fingers.
Today the stars are bright in my eyes because
they're right, the sea is calm with satisfaction.
Across the bay, black women swagger
to the beat of calypso, signalling me to come
with obscene, half-incredible signs.
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