Written By: Carl Boon
Four leopards in a zoo
plunge at grocery sacks
of chicken skin & innards. It’s getting windy,
the swirls of clouds south
a colorless rainbow. The stucco shacks
on Christian Street
should’ve been stone,
and we wish St. Peter’s Rock & Tile
had never gone
to the Duvaliers, the Tonton Macoute
with their Ray-Bans & switchblades.
I hear the rustling
of my grandmother’s skirt
in the doorway, her disarticulations.
To the north, the nation
trundles its fear, the pauses
of the Caribbean no consolation
for what came & what comes. They predict
twenty souls a minute & leopards
lost. Perhaps the sound
of a mountain snare won’t be enough,
the Port-au-Prince trucks
full of lumber. It’s getting windy
& my grandmother secures her Bible
& her father’s glasses & all
she remembers of America.
All she could’ve saved.
About the Author
Carl Boon lives in Izmir, Turkey, where he teaches courses in American culture and literature at 9 Eylül University. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Lime Hawk and The Lullwater Review. Forthcoming work is scheduled to appear in The Maine Review and the Hawai’i Review. A 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee, Boon is currently editing a volume on the sacred and the sublime in American literature.