She exits the plane
on the island runway,
fake fur coat in hand.
The tropical heat
hits her hard as
she crosses the tarmac.
Her handbag’s full of dollars but
her stomach’s almost empty like her suitcases
going round the baggage claim band.
Uncle Bennie,
the taxi driver,
comes to meet her.
He pulls up
the steep hill
to their blue house.
Family dashing through
the scorched garden looks darker
and older than she remembers.
Brother, “Paper Bag,” cooks up
a plate of welks* and rice
to break her fast before jet lag sets in.
On the porch, she checks her list
and slaps the sand flies and
mosquitoes feasting on her legs.
Topping her “To take back list:”
maubi* three bottles of Cruzan rum.
Homesick music: “How She Panty Get Wet”
and “Stand Back Gal.”
To stuff herself on: Miss Davis meat patties,
salt fish an’ dumpling, fungi and boiled snapper,
conk fritters, callaloo, crab cake, souse….
belly busting, lip-licking home-cooking.
Eyes wide open “fore-day-morning.”
She’s ready to raid the shops
in town before the cocks crow
cause her body’s on different time.
The bus driver speeds
down the middle of a winding road,
dodging on-coming traffic and blasting reggae
and calypso from a loudspeaker.
The crammed passengers,
chocolate Dominicans and black Haitian
speaking Spanish and patois.
She feels like a foreigner in her home.
Everyday she’s on the road
eating, drinking, catching up with friends
catching sun and hell from people
who think she’s “too Yankee.”
Come New Year’s, suitcases are heavy
and she’s itching to fight any
customs officer and sniffing dog
with a nose too sharp.
Waddling across the tarmac
big as Santa Claus
she swears she’ll never ever
“stay ‘way” from home so long.
*Caribbean food and drinks
© December 2006-12-29
Althea Mark-Romeo
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