TOPHER ALLEN

Ode to the John Crow

“I went (to survey the scene in the aftermath of Hurricane Melissa) on Friday and didn’t see any john crows in the air and wondered if anything could be done about getting some in the area to take up some of the carcasses.”
— Zahra Burton, Jamaican Journalist

There is a particular kind of hunger that follows a hurricane:
not empty bellies but empty mouths in awe, bare foundations
yearning for their walls, their migrated zinc roofs, refrigerators
now giant fish caught in the net of mangroves, holes in the ground
void of roots, no air in the lungs of fowl.

Goats have stiffened on their sides with teeth grinning,

cows swelling, dogs are curled in cozy corners.
We mistake mosquitoes for flies, flies arrive without invitation,
for carcasses have outnumbered kerosene and car tires.

And when the only thing being raised from the dead is a stench,
we desire your help; we have opened a carrion-café,
offering you a buffet of our unburied. You who glide high and look low,

you who are not Gods but angels of the fetid flesh.

You after whom a pea is named not only for its black and red
hue but for its voodoo use. John Crow,
we say your name with twisted mouths and knitted brows,

as if your hunger is a sin and survival must be clean.

We speak also of the white one, the rare one, the one that must
descend and taste first, the one we call the Parson John Crow,
for even among the despised we must create a pecking order.
We say it prays before it eats, then the rest wreath around the meat.

Directions to Maroon Cemetery 

Take the winding route up the mountain’s windward side.
Careful, it is hilly on the left and precipice on the right;
if a man were to misstep he would grab at air.
Fat boulders perch on the cliffs as if waiting
to stage an ambush. The path runs
into-and-out-of knee-deep river courses.
The stones are slippery, as though coated
with coconut oil or pig fat.

There is a stone-structure—roofless and overrun with weeds.
Cerasee vines have climbed the walls and clustered
over the windows like wreaths.
Wild roots lead into and out of the exposed insides
like entrails spilling from goat carcass.

Walk until the rustling leaves sound like voices.
Look out for a round patch of flat land, nestled in the mountain’s
bosom. Trees and shrubs are afraid to grow in said spot;
a fire of its own mind would rise out of the ground
to devour every brown leaf and snag.
Look, but take nothing from this land.

Topher Allen is a poet and short story writer from Jamaica. His writing explores grief, mental health, and the layered cultural and historical experiences of his Caribbean upbringing. He is an Obsidian Foundation Fellow and Scottish Poetry Library feature poet. His work appears in the Nashville Review, Montreal Writes, Magma, adda, Poetry London, Ambit among other journals and anthologies. Topher won the Poet Laureate of Jamaica: Louise Bennett-Coverley Prize for Poetry in 2019 and was shortlisted for the London Magazine Poetry Prize in 2025.