Blood

I was born on an island
Christened by genocide.
Blood is absolute here,
not water. Blood is the rumor
of an invasion; a coup; a servant’s
illegitimate baby; the color of one’s skin;
or the national ID card denied to thousands
of Dominicans with Haitian ancestry.
Blood is the currency here.

Blood is the stain removed from white
pages trying to bleach history,
the way corals are bleached
by the sun like bones. Oh!
Forgive this impolite language!
We are in the company of flaming
tongues that have mongrelized existence
on the amount of creole blood.

Blood is an absent ruin on the shores
where Columbus and his men sliced
arms and necks for the desires of a sword-
thrusting kingdom that placed history
upon a cross, crossing waters with the drip-
drip-drop of natives collecting nuggets.
Lives granulated for sugar,
the white gold that brought empires
onto dying corals and transformed
landscapes for more plantations- cacao,
indigo, coffee, and palms stripped from
dying mountains where the sun scorches
skins without favoring age. Bloody hell!
Gaia is choking on her own plasma.

About the Author

Patrick Sylvain is a Haitian-American writer, essayist and poet, and instructor of Haitian language and culture at Brown University’s Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies. He has been published in several anthologies, magazines, and reviews, including African American Review, Agni, American Poetry Review, Callaloo, Crab Orchard Review, Haitian Times and Ploughshares. His poetry chapbook, “Underworlds,” was published by Central Square Press in 2018, and he was a featured poet on Benjamin Boone’s Poetry and Jazz CD The Poets are Gathering (Oct 2020).