mud mothers

the children of haiti are not mythological we are starving or eating salty cakes made of clay because in 1804 we felled our former slave captors the graceless losers sunk vindictive yellow teeth into our forests what was green is now dust and everyone knows trees unleash oxygen (another humble word for life) they took off with our torn branches beheaded our future stuck our breath up on pikes for all the world to see we are a living dead example of what happens to warriors who in lieu of fighting for white men's countries dare to fight for their own lives during carnival we could care less about our bloated empty bellies where there are voices we are dancing where there is vodou we are horses where there are drums we are possessed with joy and stubborn jamboree but when the makeshift trumpet player runs out of rhythmic breath the only sound left is guts grumbling and we sigh to remember that food and freedom are not free is haiti really free if our babies die starving? if we cannot write our names read our rights keep our leaders in their seats? can we be free? really? if our mothers are mud? if dead columbus keeps cursing us and nothing changes when we curse back we are a proud resilient people though we return to dust daily salt gray clay with hot black tears savor snot cakes over suicide we are hungry creative people sip bits of laughter when we are thirsty dance despite this asthma called debt congesting legendarily liberated lungs