sister of all black nations,
bold Mother of my ancestors
ascendant acoustic homeland,
I hear you.
Your sonorous voice sounds
like the homemade goat skin Bata drum
beating in celebration of our first found freedom.
First black independent nation,
hated by many and envied by traitors,
Haiti, mother of mine,
we want no more papa pretenders
draining lives from your worried womb.
I feel the pull of your umbilical cord,
twinge of your pain in every membrane.
like a mother feels
the first kick from a child in her stomach.
Damn the dark days
of every dictator
who disregarded our anthem!
“Let there be no traitors in our ranks!
Let us be masters of our soil.”
Instead of taking and raping
our family lived by the creed of the anthem:
“May the fields be fertile
and our souls take courage”
Grandpapa planted plantains,
potatoes and peas across
your fertile black belly,
moist with source d’eau formed by rain.
I do love you.
Though oceans away, you’re with me day by day
Your memories splash through my mind
like the motion of the turquoise ocean near L’ile de la tortue.
I inherited my skin from you–
like Toussaint, no need for tanning,
my skin is a symbol of strength and perseverance,
sometimes tender as a newborn’s–
a reminder of a dark past and a dazzling future.
I stepped away from your soil,
your golden grains, the soft give of your sand,
succulent white rice with Congo beans.
onto the hard concrete—
It’s hard to eat in America.
like many others, rootless in another land.
Dear Mother, I hear your call,
the sound of the homemade goat skin Bata drum
beating slowly, almost stopping,
like a heart on the verge of failing.
Lugensky Durosier was born in Haiti in Port-au-Prince. He recently learned that the origins of his Polish first name stemmed from remnants of Polish troops that Napoleon had garrisoned and eventually abandoned in Haiti. Lugensky was a creative writing major at Bloomfield college and received a Masters Degree in Business. He loves his rich cultural heritage!
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