Behind the closed garage doors engine oil
fumes, touch of ganja, dust on the wainscot,
on a workbench piled high with odd gargoyle
lumps, unfinished tasks your husband forgot
about years ago. We’ve come here to play;
the grease spot on the floor mirrors our own
messy thoughts. Hair in rollers, negligee
cast down, my cock buried in the well-known,
well-loved well of your balampalampam.
This is, “kunou-monou;” what the obeah
vow, old-school sodomy. At sixty-five
strokes you shout, at ninety-five you melt. “Damn,
boy-boy,” you groan. “Damn, cum in me.” If we
sin its through love. If we love we survive.
I use Barbados slang in this poem. Balampalampam means a very large ass. Kunou-monou is a bewitching spell. Obeah is witchcraft.