A 1,000 Voices

“fetch mi board der
an hold it ere
me a fix de windo befo
plank dem go on so and so”

the hour’s not so late
yet the day goes dreary
the wind is but a tell-tale trait
of an isle grown weary

your hammer echos loud
over rustling fronds
as i leave the grounds
and head for the bay

“will he stay, will he stay?”
the tourists ask and say,
each one going on more and more
before the ones in the previous shuttle

they are gone and you
are once again mine
i think of this and ponder
our long-life line

from stateside to island,
two country boys in two different countries
who somehow found each other
and now find ourselves on your isle

our little bed and breakfast,
a piece of respite for the weary,
and i am weary,
is boarded and battened

for the storm is coming but
i find it erie, quite and still
with the tourists gone
but that is only until the raucus

from over yonder hedge
the reggae music pours and
drowns the laughter of
that old drunk Augustine

“im done, mon, im done
and de day done gone
dark as night, mon,
an de storm soon come”

soon come, mon,
soon come
and he throws drizzles
of rum out onto the lawn
“for the dupee dem,”
he laughs as the rain eases
ashore and then begins to pour

the sound of rain pounding
credits our zinc roof
and pushes me to seek shelter
on the veranda

you have left me a rum punch
and i wait for you there,
rocking in my chair,
like i have always wanted and dreamed

ever since those kentucky days
when grandparents and aunts and uncles
would laugh and talk on the porch
while cousins ate honeysuckles
chased fireflies

and you worlds away were
doing the same
but with sugarcane in hand
and the peniwaly floating overhead

rains wash down the roof
and creates a watery screen
around the veranda while
it fills the lawn with overgrown puddles

minutes pass and the wind begins
to howl and so i enter to find
a romantic interlude
of gently hissing lamps

in the darkened kitchen
there are dumplings and stew fish
and okra, like you made on our
second date, and i am enraptured

the food is cold and i must shoo
the flies from the fish, still not
accustomed to island living, you
would shake your head

in our parlor the radio sizzles while
rains pound upon your plank-covered
windows, and still i hear reggea music
from across the yard

your glass of rum punch rests
on the table along with its many
condensated wet-rings, and i steam
for you leaving it here

and then steam for not ever
getting a ring from you, or for not
having some sort of ceremony to
commemorate our finding the other

and i yell out for you, seething now,
while lightning begins to slip through
your well-defended glass panes
and thunder booms aloud

this whole house rattles and
soon whistles as wind forces
through the cracks of this old
house, causing me to doubt

i check the doors, locks and
panes to see if we are really safe
but all is as it should, except for you
and so i make my way upstairs

where lanters hiss with sizzling
waters and the gentle pitter patter
sing-along-song of rain
caught in various pans

in the room i hear the old transister
whir, but it sounds romantically clear,
that you want to love me every day
every night with the roof up over our heads

i ease the door open and find you
lying there, in bed as usual, weary
and tired you’ve retired before me
you seem at peace

the lanters flickering off your dark
skin cause my own flames of passion
to burn and i rush to you
with mouth and hands open

but you are not there,
only a cold, empty vessel
in this, our old jamaican inn
and so this is where it all comes to an end

i’m done, mon, i’m done
and de day done gone
dark as night, mon,
an de storm soon come

i take a sip then drizzle some rum
so this is where it all comes to an end
in this, our old jamaican inn

© Telly McGaha