NEALA LUNA

The imam caught all manner of jinn,
trapped them in glass jars; buried them in the dark
two feet deep beneath silk cotton trees.

His great-grandson once caught a purple jellyfish,
entombed tentacles and all in a cocoa tin,
two feet deep in the north coast’s cold Toco sand.

The imam’s birth had been eagerly awaited in Trinidad,
conceived as he was, in the holy land; and
at twelve, called upon to become an imam.

Uncle, said great-grandson at age four, to an impatient
quarrelsome stranger at a cricket match, Speak kindly to
your daughter. See the way what you say smudges her face?

Soft-spoken and gentle, the imam lived a long-life
unhurried, with laughing children about his feet
and above, among the drying cocoa and tonka beans.

Great-grandson shone with life and grace through trials,
and illuminated the world for the lost, sunk in the dark.
But his time was called before he became a man.

Both great-grands were buried at Waterloo.
The imam’s procession stretched from cocoa house
to gravesite: a walking mile of Muslim mourners in white.

Eight branches of families came together for great-grandson —
arms across the globe reaching out beyond the glass;
whispered duas taking wing on fibre-optic pulses of light.