Lost Correspondent

— Patrick Sylvain

I am zeroing in on a metal desk on the floor.
It stands two and half feet tall, with parcels
Of history laminated like skin on its yellowish
Rectangular surface, rusted aluminum.
Right side, a drawer gapes like a missing tooth.

You sit naked in your warm abode facing a massive
Reef that protrudes like an abscess.
It is always October 25, 1983. Your fingers urgently
Click the same keys upon your Royal typewriter.
“Operation Urgent Fury has descended upon us.”

You said the gods know the intent of birds of prey,
And rodents are always hunted despite their noble
Desire to be self-sufficient. But it is the hierarchy
Of consumption that prevails and Bishops’ prayers
Cannot reorder the rapacious character of predators.

Lost in the ridges, the past is the only compass
That you have, but tourism is allergic to harsh
Memories. Instead, it favors smiles and pristine
Shores where the natives are rigged entertainers.
People live in the infinite expanse of tourism

With cupped hands. You are the memory of that
Aborted movement, the promise of daily bread
To all its ragged inhabitants. The Grenadian Revolution
Was situated upon a great imperial fault line before
The sun rusted the sky with various hues of rage.

Read more from Issue No. 19 or share on Twitter.