talking poetry, telling you about graduate studies timelines
and fiscal allocations across national gender bureaux
had i pretended you were just some summer fantasy
i wouldn’t have broken my promise of
writing you letters on colonial postcards
we exchanged for coins in Bookland
Kinsale is a small village in Montserrat where she lived for a year when they left London in ‘67. Every child in Kinsale could swim except Clarice and her siblings. She would watch the children with envy while driving in the father’s car. The sheer laughter and absolute joy of the other children had been denied them. She wished then she could have simply jumped into the water on a Sunday afternoon.
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In her newest series, Jamaican visual artist Roberta Stoddart takes on the discomforting task of inviting viewers into the Caribbean home-space to interrogate and disrupt the practice of incest, a reality we shudder to face and stammer to speak of in the Caribbean. Over six oil paintings, none larger than 20 x 15 inches, Stoddart tells the story of a Caribbean family attempting to hide wounds of incest inflicted within the home.
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“Welcome to Café la Spiaggia.” I say to a woman who walks by me without a word heading to the bar. Some tourists see us as decoration. The staff is mostly nice but the guys are insistent in their advances. Anthony the American chef is a bigshot who participated in one of those Top Chef programs on TV. He’s not bad looking but has the biggest ego I’ve ever come across. He and the sous-chef have casually invited me to their rooms more times than I can count. I’ve said no each time.
Read Morewomen’s noses began screaming out of barrack windows, a cutlass would wreak havoc,/
x’s marked spots like tainted treasure on their face and arms, some deities go to jail