All the Kin-ness in Foil Shrouds

Colin Channer

You called tilapia snapper's cousin.
King fish? In-law-like to shark.

You styled Jamaicans zealous with ginger,
lax to mash allspice. Good bad though with soup,
but all-you do provisions clumsy-yam
ain't cut up like the meat.

Jan love now you're silent, braising in respect,
hat-lidded, eyes in owlish glasses
sclerotic wings criss-crossed.
True gran, nomad for the kinder,
gypsy-cabber to the meet, the recitation,
sweetie cupboard in the purse.

We hush toward your casket, file the wooden pews,
sotto organ voce, canefield riddim thudding out.

When god dished you Gehrig's
you took worship for the halt and stayed the hobble,
said the drugs would make you dunce
now here you lie you stupid fuck in garnish,
room reserver at the motor inn checked out.

If I go, I'll maybe toast you at the banquet,
gourmandize while ruing,
nod thanks for cou-cou warm when offered,
all the kin-ness in foil shrouds, transparent caskets,
roti skins I'll leave with
and the odor of belonging in my hair,
a prick crown of jerk and curry
escovitch and gungo, sorrel and white rum.

Mother of my no longer wife
death vexes. Long to fight with you.

Boy-bigger cock than you does crow
and end up in pelau.


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