THIS NEGRO
This negro doesn’t speak of rivers,
I speak of Haitian children
whipped by misery and denied a nationality;
this negro doesn’t speak of rivers,
there are other currents marking the cartography
of this map we call Republic;
I speak of borders traced with human bones
to separate people with the fear of death,
I also speak of borders erased by the footprints
of women giving birth in the sugarcane plantations
where the boss, the master,
would like to steal even their screams of pain;
this negro doesn’t speak of rivers,
my words don’t flow down serpentine streams,
they fall sharply into the hearts of this Nation
puncturing years of deception,
word by word
I speak of hatred expertly hidden within diplomatic speeches,
history twisted,
sweet tasty sugar,
refined labor
bleached out of the blood of siblings I’m afraid to name;
this is not a poem about strangers
for when I hear of Haitians being thrown across the border,
I see myself with dusty chest,
facing the ground as if it were my grave;
this negro doesn’t speak of rivers,
I speak of Haitian children
born under the Dominican flag and then denied that nationality…
my soul has also grown deep like a river, Langston,
but I didn’t build the pyramids,
I have not bathed my sorrow in the green solitude
of someone else’s fields,
and it wasn’t mine the trail of tears
wetting the moonlight when memories of home invaded the mind,
this negro doesn’t speak of rivers.
© 1999, the author.
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