Dwayne
one of twelve, your sisters’ favorite
and nightmare. Your forearm, an interceptor
for knives aimed at the women in your family
by men with little to no home training.
Your conspiracy theories could roll eyes
into bowling pins, striking down arguments
about the existence of Jesus, aliens, and life on Mars.
Your reputation floats in no sewer mouths,
your name, a praise song the community sings.
Your veranda congregates bicycles like a bike shop,
yutes ready for your gyalis lessons. You’d preach,
’oman nuh wah wukless man yuh fi know how fi steam fish
and fry bammy; yuh fi can chop a yute inna him head wid
a Guinness if him try violate unnu union; yuh fi can caress har,
twist har up betta dan locs. You and you brothers,
neighborhood dolls entertaining Keisha, Latoya, Trisha, Tasha ...
Father to little. Father figure to many. Fathered a lot.
Our beloved bang belly man, you turned thin
as a kite string sounding alarms: Pneumonia?
Diabetes? AIDS? God cooked and served
all three with no cleanup miracles.
The entire community rallied; yutes grabbed
bicycles for grocery and pharmacy runs;
baby mothers’ delicate hands took turns
giving sponge baths, your comical commentary
induced amnesia. Your funeral, a crammed stadium
of brimming eyeballs giving a standing ovation
triple the length of Sunday Service.
Did you want to go in the absence of your siblings?
You never forgave them for leaving you; for not
asking why you stayed so long. Someone had to
clear the wild bushes from your mother’s grave.
What an unfortunate time to die
at the tail end of your visa application.
Notes:
This poem is part of the folio “Freed Verse: A Reckoning of Black British Poets.” Read the rest of the folio in the September 2025 issue.
Source: Poetry (September 2025)