Part 1 Lakay

Friendliness and Understanding

AUGUST 15, 1934

HINCHE, HAITI

Statement from the Secretary of State:

In the nearly twenty years during which our marine and naval forces have been stationed in Haiti they have rendered invaluable, disinterested service to the Haitian Government and the people. At this present moment they are withdrawing from the island in an atmosphere of great friendliness and the best of understanding. We wish for the Government and people of Haiti stability, progress and all success.

When the section chief

finishes reading to us,

gathered in the muggy heat,

no one says a word.

Was he expecting applause?

They say the section chief—

at first respected,

now detested—

helped sòlda Ameriken yo

kill Caco resisters

steal our land

and force us like slaves

to build roads.

“Friendliness and understanding? Hmph.”

The air is thick

with resentment

and relief.

Surely things will be better now.

For the first time in my fourteen years,

I see the Haitian flag raised

from its lower position at half-mast,

and the drapo Ameriken an,

always higher till now,

lowered, folded,

and taken away.

My Friend Fifina

I’ll never forget

the first time I saw her

when the school year started.

In the courtyard ?? of the Mission School

I sat???????? apart from the others

drawing a bird

in red earth with a twig

from Mapou.

“That’s beautiful.”

Her voice arrived first,

warm honey and butter.

I looked up and saw skin

the color of glowing dark walnut

her soft cheve swa

a silky braid down her back.

A marabou,

those we consider

the most beautiful.

“I’m Fifina.”

I stood up, wiped my hands

on my skirt.

“I’m Lucille.”

We walked back to the classroom

inside me

a sunrise.

Trust

At the Bassin Zim waterfall,

where Papa taught me to swim

in the rivière Samana

and dive in underwater caves,

the light-jeweled water

caresses the cliff.

I teach Fifina to swim,

first holding her

as she floats on her back

her black hair fanning out

like angel wings.

When I sense

her body relax,

trust the water,

I let go.

Listen

Fifina and I perch

high like birds

on Mapou’s branches

for hours.

I press my ear

against the side stripes

of Mapou’s bark,

Fifina next to me.

“Don’t you hear anything?”

Her mouth

rises in a smile,

but she

never laughs at me

never makes me feel

my head’s not on straight

never says

that I look like a boy.

“I don’t hear anything,”

says Fifina.

“If I told you

Mapou sings to me,

what would you think?”

“I’d think you’re lucky!

Tell me what you hear,”

she says.

“I hear a woman’s voice singing,

and when I close my eyes,

behind my eyelids

I see flashing lights,

like bird wings

fluttering in the sun.

“It doesn’t make sense

until I fall asleep.

Then they all come together

in my dreams. I used to

try and draw them,

but now I want to carve,

like Papa.”

Fifina holds my hand

and squeezes it.

“You have a gift.”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“I promise.”

That makes me smile,

our secret to keep.

Our feet swing free

from Mapou’s branches.

We talk of what

shape our lives will be

when we start our own school

where girls will learn

more than we do at the Mission School.

We’ll make our own book,

with her mother’s leaf-medicine recipes

and my drawings of the plants.

We’ll teach girls how to carve, sew, draw, climb trees.

We’ll teach girls the songs of trees, flowers, birds, butterflies,

the sun, moon, mountains, clouds.

Mapou listens

to our dreams

falling like gentle rain

on her leaves.

When it’s time to go home

we climb down????carefully

Mapou’s branch in my hand

to chase away

snakes.

Mine

Each mapou

is special,

a resting place

reposwa

for the ones before us

still with us,

ever since our land

born from fire

stood up high from the sea

to make mountains

behind mountains.

Those who serve the spirits

say they know exactly

what makes mapou trees sacred.

“Trees are God’s creation,

but He made them mute,”

says Sister Gilberte

when I tell her

about my Mapou.

“The Church or the spirits,

you can’t serve them both.”

To stay in school,

I keep my silence.

Still,

Mapou sings to me.

Days of Blood

“Bonjou, Ti Sè!”

Fifina calls out.

She calls me Little Sister,

which I love.

We’re both the same age,

but

she looks more

like

a grown woman.

“Bonjou, Fifina.”

Her name

a swelling sail

in the wind.

Today she stands

as I climb my beloved

Mapou.

“Come on.”

I stretch out my hand.

She shakes her head

looks down at her feet.

“I can’t anymore,

because of the cloth.”

“What cloth?”

“To catch the blood

between my legs.

It’s pinned to my panties

but if I move too much

the blood trickles down.

I have two

so I can boil the other

clean with soap.”

My stomach starts churning,

bubbling with nausea.

So that’s what’s different.

I can smell her blood,

mingled with sweat and soap.

Will she start thinking of

boys and babies,

and forget our school

and me?

“How long

do you bleed?”

“It only lasts a week,”

she says.

“Seven whole days?

Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It did at first,

but Manman held me

when I cried.

“She said the bleeding was

the song of the moon

in my body.

“Then she made me a tizan

from wild mushrooms and herbs.

It helped with the pain.

“Don’t be afraid,

Ti Sè.

“I’ll tell you

my mother’s recipe,

when your days

of blood begin.”

I close my eyes

to fight ? tears

fear

anger.

Nothing will ever

make me stop climbing

or carving.

Carving

With a knife

in my hand

I don’t think.

As I carve next to Papa,

on a smaller stool,

he stops from time to time

to look at my work.

Sometimes

he nods his encouragement

or says “not bad”

or a rare “well done.”

I happily hum

those little songs

those lullabies

inside me

around me

beneath and above.

Songs of the Mother Tree.

Pine or cedar,

oak or mahogany

mostly I carve

birds.

Or the same two shapes.

One sun-round face.

One black full moon

in her arms.

A mother whose face

I can’t remember

and whose songs

I can’t forget.

Drawing Numbers in the Air

Thank goodness

Fifina helps me

with math.

If the Sisters knew

how bad I am at it,

they might give up on me,

although they say

math is for boys

and we don’t need to learn

it as much.

Fifina disagrees,

like Cousin Phebus.

I especially hate

multiplication and long division.

The numbers can’t stay in place

long enough for me to calculate.

To see them

and hold them in place,

I have to write them in the air

with my index finger.

Fifina never laughs at me

when she knows

I’m doing this

under the desk.

“How will you know

you’re not being cheated

when it comes to money

if you can’t do the numbers?”

she asks me gently.

“That’s why they don’t care

if we learn it.”

At our school,

Fifina will be

doing the figures

and teaching math.

Mission School

Fifina and I

sit together at school

and listen

to Sister Gilberte,

the curly white hairs

on her chin

dancing as she talks.

I always ask her about

the country she came from.

I’ve decided one day

I will travel the world

with Fifina

to see “where the street

makes a corner,”

as our saying goes.

After all my questions,

one day Sister Gilberte gives in.

After class,

she shows us

a map in a book,

puts her finger on

a jagged shape

called Europe,

then points to

a tiny patch.

Her country,

Belgium.

She shows us a postcard

from her mother

of a gray land

pressed flat by low clouds.

“Those clouds are so heavy

they’ll smother the fields,”

I say. “Is that why you came here?”

Would I want to leave home

if I had a chance?

Fields of Blood

“I’ll tell you a story.”

Sister Gilberte’s big leather book

is stained and smells moldy

but she holds it open

on her lap

with the care

of a priest

holding his Bible.

“My fiancé fought

on one of those fields

in a war

they said

would end all wars.

“I went to live

in a city of women,

a béguinage

where women make laws

and decisions together.

“For hundreds of years,

they’ve existed.

“Walled cities were our home

when men went to war

or the Crusades.

“We took such good care

of each other

that when the men returned

many of us stayed there.

“If we could do that then,

we can do anything now.”

She shows us

a faded photo

of a young man in a uniform,

moon face, thin lips.

“André was a university student

in Louvain,

where my father was his teacher.”

“What’s a university?”

“A place where

men read big books

and tell others

what’s in them.”

“Why only men?

Are they priests, too?”

“Let me finish my story!”

Sister Gilberte’s face

moves from sunlight to cloud.

“André was a man of peace,

but he went to war

to defend our country.

“They found his body

“hanging over barbed wire

shot through with bullets.

“Our country

became Europe’s battlefield,

filled with blood and bones.”

She takes off her glasses

and rubs her eyes.

“Within a month,

I took my vows

to marry Christ.

“I made a choice

to leave my old life behind

“as far as I could.

“And here I am.”

Her eyes are red-rimmed.

“The trouble with love

is the cracks in your heart

never mend.”

She blinks fast,

bites her lip.

Can any love be worth

those tears and cracks

that nothing in the world

can ever mend?

May that love

of blood and gray clouds

of heart-burnt ashes

I’ve seen Papa suffer

pass me by.

DECEMBER 10, 1935

Sixteen

Today Tante Lila wakes me

with my favorite breakfast,

akasan drizzled with honey,

black coffee

with brown sugar.

She kisses my cheek,

her lips cold and dry.

“Happy birthday, my niece.

“You’re a woman now,

even if you don’t

look like one yet.”

She glances down

at my chest

and sighs.

“At your age

I was already

bleeding

and men were lined up,

begging to marry me.

“Of course those days

are long gone. And it

sure doesn’t look like

those things

will ever happen to you.”

This time I had to speak up.

It was my birthday, after all.

“Tante Lila, are you saying

you think I’m ugly?”

“Well, you’re not pretty.”

Finally, she says what she thinks.

So what? I want to shout,

but instead I’m

blinking back tears.

She doesn’t see me.

And I know she never will.

I decide not to care.

She’s not Manman,

who I know

would never say that.

Anger tears at my appetite.

“Hurry up and finish.

Your father has a surprise.”

Papa’s Gift

Papa gives me

a piece of pine

the size of his palm.

He turns it

over and over.

His smile

is like the sun

breaking through clouds.

“Our eyes don’t see

how wood is alive,

like water.

“Look for the shapes

that hide in the wood.

“Listen to what

the wood wants to be.

Look hard and listen

before you use your knife.”

Then he gives me

my own carving knife,

like his but smaller

mother-of-pearl handle

sharp, sleek blade

gleaming in the sun.

“Thank you!”

I am dazzled by the light

on its blade.

I will sleep

with my knife

safe

under my pallet

strap it to my belt

in the leather sheath

Papa made.

My knife

will never leave me.

The First Time

My birthday afternoon

moves like thick wild honey

on manioc.

Everything slows down,

even my heartbeat.

“Happy birthday,

Ti Sè!”

Even though she can’t

climb Mapou with me,

Fifina brings me gifts

from her father’s office,

where he makes

his own newspaper,

and prayer cards, catechisms,

wedding invitations.

He wears thick glasses

because he reads too much.

She hands me two sheets of paper,

soft and white

flecked with wood pulp,

and a shiny orange pencil,

already sharpened,

plump eraser on its end,

smooth in my hand.

“Thank you!” I kiss

her peach-soft cheek.

Throat tight, heart pounding

the first time

I’ve drawn

on paper this clean

this new,

instead of with

a twig in the dirt.

I rub out my first

nervous lines.

Where do I start?

Drawing Fifina

In profile.

I start with a line

from her forehead

down along her nose

rounding her lips,

her chin and neck.

Then I fill in

her ocean of hair,

her long rope of braid.

Return to

the curve of her breasts

grown so quickly this year:

hungry glances from men

and pursed lips from women.

Her small hands

with needle and thread

stitching butterflies.

The last thing I draw

are her eyes

flickering sun

on dark water.

Cave Drawings

“Since it’s my sixteenth birthday,

I’m queen for the day, right?

I can do what I want.”

Fifina nods, with a smile.

“Well, I want to go

to the cave. The one your mother goes to

with the others. I think my mother went there

with yours once. Papa went, too. To hide the drums.

He said he saw drawings on the cave walls.

Messages from the first people here to us.

My mother understood what they meant.

“My father let all that slip

the night after sòlda Ameriken yo

left, when the whole village celebrated

and he joined in,

drinking too much kleren.”

“You know we’re not supposed to go there.

If the Sisters find out...”

“How will they? My lips are sealed. Please?”

I tilt my head and

clasp my hands in prayer.

“OK. Anything for my Ti Sè.

But we have to be quick.

I have to be home before dark.”

We make our way

up wooded cliffs

up to the waterfall,

then take an overgrown path

hidden by broken branches.

But we’re not alone.

There’s a policeman from the Garde,

trained by the sòlda Ameriken yo,

who, just like our President Vincent,

hates those who serve the spirits,

thinks they are backward,

and need to convert.

He sees us

and stomps out his cigarette.

“Hey, what are you doing here?”

“We were lost,” says Fifina,

trying to sound like

a lost little girl.

“Come here so I can see you

and report you to

the section chief.”

We grab each other’s hands and run

as fast as we can. Stones fly past our heads.

Brambles scratch our knees.

Out of danger,

we collapse in each other’s arms,

breathing deep from exhaustion,

half wincing and laughing.

Fifina has one arm around me,

and with her right hand she unbuttons

just one button.

Enough for me to see

the heaving fullness of her breasts

and take it in.

She smells of pine needles and sweat,

her long loose hair tickles my face.

I brush it from my cheek

and let my hand linger on hers

for a moment.

She doesn’t move away.

So I kiss her on

the side of her neck,

not the cheek, like we usually do.

She inhales softly,

her lips parted.

She doesn’t pull away.

I let myself hope that,

besides our school,

there might be other things

we want to do together.

“Best birthday ever,”

I whisper.

Our goodbye hug

longer.

Even better than in my dreams.

We make it home

just before dark.

DECEMBER 15, 1935

Without Her

The first day

I thought

her days of blood

had come again.

The second day

I drew her face

over and over

in my notebook.

The third day

I stared out the window

and was startled

when Sister Gilberte

called on me.

The fourth day

stretched flat and gray,

like Belgian clouds.

The fifth day

Sister Gilberte

asked me to stay after class.

“Fifina isn’t coming back to school.

I’m sorry. I know you were close.”

Her voice is softer

than I’ve ever heard before.

My heart pounds so hard

I can’t hear my thoughts,

tongue thick with fear.

“Why? Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Her mother

would not say.”

“Why would she leave

without saying goodbye?”

I try my best

to keep my tears

on the inside,

but my voice trembles.

“Is she ever coming back?”

Sister Gilberte

pulls her rosary from her pocket.

“We must pray for her.

“Her mother gave me this

for you.”

A small hand-stitched book

embroidered with butterflies,

a pinkie-thin pencil,

tied with a ribbon.

Recettes lakay

pou Ti Sè.

Her mother’s home recipes

just as she’d promised.

My hands shake

as I take it.

The Recipes

The title’s in Kreyol,

but the recipes are in French.

Even though

she can write Kreyol

because her mother taught her,

she knows that I can’t

read it very well.

She thought of it all.

Recipes for headaches and sore throats,

indigestion and asthma.

For when

my own days

of blood

pounce upon me.

For acne, dry skin,

bad breath, nails broken.

She even left

blank pages in the back

for me to write my own recipes.

And what about

hearts broken?

My most-needed recipe,

she didn’t include.

Empty

Her place next to mine stays empty.

Everyone else acts like she never existed.

The sun in my heart too sick to rise.

Fifina’s Recipe

For When Your Heart Is Cracked Open

Gather all

you have

on hand,

and make sure

you see it.

Then start

to listen

with the ear

of your heart.

Breathe

deeper,

keep going.

Forget about time.

Lay your head

on me

before

falling asleep.

Famn Lakou

The best way

to find Fifina,

will be through

the famn lakou,

women who

know everything about everyone

through the teledjol grapevine.

Whenever Tante Lila

talks to the famn lakou

I crouch quiet

out of sight

to hear all their stories.

This time

the one story I need

is Fifina’s.

When I asked Tante Lila,

she just said,

“This is not a story

for ti moun.”

I begged, did every chore

before she even asked,

but still she wouldn’t relent.

The famn lakou,

whose voices I know well,

try to hide some stories

on the highest shelves,

way in the back.

Those are the ones

I need most.

The Outside Wife

After waiting crouched

for an hour,

I start to catch hints of Fifina’s story

from the famn lakou.

“Now Fifina. That poor family.

Remember when they first

locked Mesye Schulman up?” says Tante Lila.

Fifina’s father was in jail?

“How can we forget? Sòlda Ameriken yo

really hated those German Haitians.

They wanted their businesses,

and they found excuses. They accused him

of giving weapons to the Cacos,”

says the office cleaner.

“Any excuse, but he was on their side...”

the prison cleaner pipes in.

“Remember how they’d brag

about cutting off the Cacos’ heads

to pass around like trophies?”

she adds.

“I heard one of them cut off

all the ears of the Cacos he’d killed

and had a necklace made

to show them all off.”

Groans and heavy sighs.

“They were something else.

Dark skin, light skin,

they really didn’t care about all that.

“A nèg was a nèg.

“To them, every last one of us

was a beast. A mule

they could kick

to death

if they wanted.

“So who

were the real beasts?”

The washerwoman’s voice

is as heavy as her basket

of dirty sheets

from the hospital.

“We lost too many good men

and women to the Occupation.

Thank God sòlda Ameriken yo

are gone.

“Didn’t they look like crabs

with their skin baked red

in our sun?”

asks the office cleaner.

A burst of laughter

before things turn serious

again.

“Even so,

their good friend

the section chief

is still here,”

says the washerwoman.

Silence.

“Did the section chief

really have a choice?”

asks Tante Lila.

“Maybe not back then,

but he does now,”

says the office cleaner.

“The first time

they arrested Mesye Schulman,

it was because he wrote

in his newspaper

about what the section chief

and the occupiers did,

grabbing all the men

who were strong enough,

throwing them in jail,

just so they could

use them like slaves

to work on their roads.

“They said he was paid

for each man he gave them.

And that’s just

the beginning,”

adds the woman

who cleans the prison

ever since her husband

crossed the border

one year to cut cane

and never returned.

“ Hummph. What’s new?”

says the office cleaner.

“What was

Four-Eyes Schulman thinking?

“A cornered dog,

always shows his teeth.”

The canteen cook

for the Garde d’Haiti

jumps in.

“I heard the gendarmes say

they made Mesye Schulman watch

when they smashed his printing press

and everything else

in his newspaper office.

“At gunpoint, they

told the workers to go home

and never come back.

Then they dragged him away.”

The prison cleaner adds,

“I saw his wife and daughter

bring bouillon because

they knocked all his teeth out,

and of course

they smashed his glasses

and handed them to his wife.”

A long sigh

and then

she adds quietly,

“I saw the section chief

staring at Fifina

at her First Communion.

We all know

how he likes them young.”

Clucks of disgust.

“We all know

men like young flesh,

but this is too much!”

cries the washerwoman.

“Will those kind never let girls

just be girls? Never let them

grow into their bodies

and decide for themselves

whose touch they want?”

Her questions remain unanswered,

clouding the room like fog.

“What happened

to Mesye Schulman?”

asks the canteen cook.

“I don’t know,”

says the prison cleaner.

“One day he was there.

The next day he was gone.

They told me to

clean his cell with bleach.”

Someone let slip

that the section chief

promised Fifina

he’d let her father live

if she became

his outside wife.

“What choice did she have?

What would you

have done?”

asks the prison cleaner,

her voice breaking.

I close my eyes

to smother my tears.

So this was why Fifina

had never mentioned her father’s arrest.

Arrested, tortured.

Now who knows

where he is?

I cover my mouth

to muffle dry retching.

No one can know

I heard all of this.

Fifina’s body had bloomed

with breasts like mangoes.

Why was it her fault

that men’s hungry eyes

followed her

impatient

to feast on her nectar?

Since the day she vanished

no one has told me

what happened. But tonight

I learned things the gran moun

thought we shouldn’t know.

They are all wrong.

Hiding the sores

won’t make them feel better.

To find Fifina,

I will find the section chief.

“Man proposes, Bondye disposes,”

says Tante Lila.

“The Good Lord has a plan

for us all.”

Please, God,

may I never

become a woman.

Mapou’s Song

Just because you’ve lost me doesn’t mean I’m gone.

My roots are firm fingers gripping the earth.

My roots are rivers that flow underground.

My roots are an underwater forest.

In the forest, we feed each other

and talk to each other, just as I sing to you.

Keep listening. You’ll know where to find me.

Those serving the spirits

know how to treat us.

We house the lwas.

Legba, Gede, Dan Petwo,

we house them and more.

We also grow near

freshwater springs,

so wherever you find us

you know you’ll be safe.

It’s true that it hurts

to be taken away by bandits

hacking at me in the night.

We know they did this

with the other trees.

Maybe they’ll sell me over the border.

Maybe they’ll build a house with me

or use the white silk around my seeds

for mattresses

or carve me into a canoe.

I hope they’ll use my seeds

and sap for growing plants and healing bodies.

Only my flowers that bloomed in the night

will be lost forever.

Forever is how long

some think we live.

We remind people that time

is not measured

the small way you think it is.

That’s why believers sing to us:

Rasin Mapou, ki le li ye?

Rasin Mapou, ki le li ye?

Soley leve nan Ginen.

Mapou’s roots, what time is it?

The sun rises nan Ginen

home of the ancestors

underwater home to us all.

When your ancestors were brought in chains,

the first people fled higher

to the mountains hidden in clouds.

Some ran for hours

in the night and joined them.

We gave them shelter when they needed to rest.

Others stayed to fight

with machetes and torches.

We saw their blood soak the earth.

When bodies free spirits,

they return to us.

We give them a home.

I will miss the two of you,

twined orchids at my feet.

I’ll show you the way

to the section chief’s house,

and you’ll find me there.

Don’t be afraid.

Don’t be frightened.

Everything is changing.

Just because you’ve lost me

doesn’t mean I’m gone.

JANUARY 25, 1936

Dream Window

This was always

my favorite time of day,

when the world holds its breath

and the window to my night dreams

is still half open.

But last night,

I heard Mapou sing.

In this pause

of blurred soft light,

I open the bamboo gate.

Hurry down the path

past caves where ancestors

painted visions on grotto walls

that we are kept from seeing

past the waterfall

where the gods once lived.

At the bottom of the road,

I stop to catch my breath,

turn around,

and hesitate.

Under the thatched roof,

Tante Lila in her room

and Papa in his,

still asleep.

The leaves of my orange tree

gleam silver in the dawn.

That same tree

Papa planted

the day I was born,

placenta buried

at its root

for good luck.

I rush down

the wooded ravine

across the gravel knolls

where the hawks fly high

through the pine tree forest,

where fallen branches

crackle

under my feet.

Gone

I finally reach the spot

where I climbed Mapou’s branches

with Fifina,

where I usually see

red-bottom birds,

their beaks soaked in resin.

Today

all I see

is a stump.

I fall to my knees.

A gray cloud gathers,

spreads heavy in my heart.

First Fifina, now Mapou.

I turn to the sky

and scream their names

until my voice

turns to dust.

Step Through

I run

past the houngfor temple

I am forbidden to enter,

its silk flags calling

only those who serve

the spirits.

Past the church

where Sister Gilberte

teaches reading, writing, and numbers

and has been praying

with me for Fifina.

When I finally reach town,

my legs are aching.

I rest for a moment

to wipe the beaded sweat

from my upper lip.

If only I could have

a sip of water first,

but the fountain

is dry.

Across the square,

schoolgirls in tidy blue uniforms

file past, neat hair

braided, in ribbons.

I want to follow them instead of doing this .

I touch my knife

for luck,

take a deep breath,

step through the door

of the police station

to report that someone

has stolen Mapou.

Fists

I’ve always had

what Tante Lila calls

“a sensitive nose.”

She’s annoyed

that I can smell the exact kind of wood

Papa is working on,

and she can’t.

After hearing what happened

from the famn lakou,

I had nightmares

that woke me up.

Like Mapou’s last song.

Fear smells

like sweat and despair.

It’s mushroomed here

for years

where only one flag now stands:

Haiti’s thick band of blue

above ruby-red earth,

the royal palm tree

in the center standing proud,

with gold cannons on a hill

ready to fire again,

united against invaders,

“L’Union Fait la Force . ”

Sòlda Ameriken yo,

les blans, are gone

after nineteen years,

tired of always fighting

those who didn’t want them.

A portrait of the section chief

next to President Vincent,

so light he looks white,

glares down at me.

People always told me

some section chiefs

were good.

But not this one

He helped the blans.

People who dared complain

were taken

in the belly of the night

handed over

and sent away

forced to build

the road from our capital

to Cap-Ha?tien,

the city prezidan Roosevelt

visited to admire

all the friendliness

his army had spread.

Those were the lucky ones.

Others died in misery,

covered with bruises, open wounds,

bones and spirits broken

or just vanished

like Fifina

and her father.

Lives emptied like pockets,

families praying, begging

for news,

remains,

anything at all

they could bury.

Now that I know all this,

my heart is a tight fist.

La Corvée

In the police station,

fear chokes my heart

as it did only once before.

A memory I buried so deep

comes rising up

like bile in my throat.

I was walking with Tante Lila

back from church,

holding her hand,

barely reaching her hips.

Was I three or four?

Then came a man,

fish-belly white

on a proud black horse,

and behind him

men roped together

as if they were chained.

Mountain vultures drew eager circles

overhead.

Everyone else on the road

stopped.

Some looked down;

some turned away.

Tante Lila pulled me close

to cover my eyes,

but I wriggled free.

The men were mainly dressed alike,

in faded gray-and-white stripes.

The youngest had

blood crusting his lips,

right eye swollen shut,

left eye filled with emptiness

like trudging mules

chained to the millstone.

“What did those men do?”

I asked Tante Lila.

She frowned.

Put her finger to her lips.

Only when the last guard

disappeared down the road

did she speak.

“Poor souls.

They are prisoners, going to build

roads for les blans.”

“Are they zonbis?”

“Ma fille, such questions

are not for ti moun.

“Short legs should walk faster

to get home before dark.”

Stolen

I grip the counter

to stop myself shaking.

“I want to report

something stolen.”

My voice echoes loudly

in this quiet room

except for the creaky fan,

watching from above.

The young officer,

crisp in khaki,

barely inches

his newspaper down.

“The lost and found

is closed today.”

He doesn’t bother

to cover his mouth

when he yawns loud and slow

and returns to his newspaper.

I stand and wait.

After a few minutes,

the gendarme,

trained by the blans,

looks up at me

and sighs.

He flicks me

a faded yellow form,

thin brittle paper

that might crumble

in my fingers.

I write carefully

with the pretty neat loops

Sister Gilberte taught me

then hand it back

and watch

him: eyebrows raised,

lips moving.

“I see. Your mapou

is missing

and you know

exactly who took it.

Are you sure your tree

didn’t go for a walk?”

He leans back in his chair,

tenting the newspaper over his knees.

I say,

“I know exactly where it is.”

When Mapou sings,

I don’t need a map.

I step away from the counter,

praying he will follow.

Sweat

I nudge past

a small group

that has gathered,

their curious stares

now challenging him.

The wild-honey woman

setting up her stall on the square

speaks without looking up.

“Are you really too busy

to help this poor girl

from the Mission School?

We don’t pay taxes

so you can sit all day

and read the papers!”

The crowd sniggers,

all eyes on him.

He breathes heavy behind me.

His sweat smells

like curdled milk.

We trudge in silence

until we reach

the front gate

of a new concrete house.

I stop

and take a deep breath:

it was exactly like this

in Mapou’s song,

even the white lace curtains.

The policeman stops and turns to me.

“But this—this is

the section chief’s house,”

he says, mopping the sweat

from his neck

with a damp handkerchief.

“The section chief

is supposed to help

all those who ask,”

says a market woman

balancing a papaya-filled basket

on her head.

“So go get his help!”

The gendarme knocks slowly.

No sign of anyone home.

Then the lace curtain

in the second-floor window

shifts.

A servant appears at the door.

“Monsieur is away in the capital

on official business,”

she says, disdain in her voice,

her eyes sweeping the crowd.

The lace curtain closes.

Found

I reach over

the acacia thorn fence

to point out

a pile of mapou trees

sawed down

stacked high

my mouth dry

when I speak.

“That’s the one.”

I point ahead.

He pulls down

his broad-brimmed hat

to cover more of his face.

“How can you tell?”

“Why would she lie?”

says the market woman,

putting down her basket.

The crowd that has gathered

murmurs in agreement.

I close my eyes.

I know my Mapou.

I held her close.

I felt her breathing.

I’ve drawn her

over and over

in the earth.

The crowd grows larger.

A second market woman

flips over

her empty basket

to sit and watch,

chin in hand.

“Euh. It’s about time

that one of you does something.

“We all saw the blans

with the help of the Church

cut down our trees,

to stop those

who serve the spirits.

“But you should know

bad things happen

to those who cut down

our mapous

even if it’s not

an official crime.”

Chortles rise

like bubbles

in a simmering pot.

The gendarme fumbles with the gate

and unlatches it.

I watch

as he bends,

peers at chopped trees.

After a few minutes,

he straightens,

clears his throat.

“I will write a report.”

One long stare at me

before he hurries away.

Exhaling

The crowd

exhales

in relief and surprise

circles me

congratulates me.

The market woman

pats my shoulder.

“Brave girl!

Not many your age

would stand up like that

and do the right thing.

Your parents

should be proud.”

A graying man pushes forward

to face me.

“Brave or foolish?

You’ve just made

the section chief your enemy.

Now you’ll have to watch your back

as long as you live.”

Another market woman glares at him

and hands me a ripe mango.

“Konpè, I respect you as my elder,

but please don’t make fear her master.

“We need more courage in our young ones,

before life breaks them down.”

I hardly hear their argument

as sweet mango juice sticks to my lips

and flows through me

like the sap of a tree.

Still Lost

When I was at

the section chief’s house

I wanted Fifina’s hand

to be the one

pulling back the curtains.

I wanted her to see me,

come out,

and escape.

But I knew from Mapou’s song

that she wasn’t there

even though

she was stolen, too.

Stolen

by the section chief

to be his “outside wife.”

His mother wouldn’t want Fifina

as her son’s official wife.

Even with her light skin

and silky hair, she’d always be

the daughter of a Boche

who helped the Cacos.

That would not help him

climb the ranks in the army.

Mapou led me here.

I pray another dream

will lead me to her.

Tangled

The sun is still high.

Tante Lila and Papa

will be happy.

I see them

at the gate.

I’m home

before dark.

Tante Lila comes running,

hugs me tight,

pushes me away,

and slaps me.

Nettles sting my cheek.

I sniffle. Too dazed to cry.

“What possessed you?

Do you realize the section chief’s mother was there?

She saw you!

Do you know what you’ve done?”

Once we’re inside, Papa sits

at the head of the table,

his face a pine mask.

“Have some bouillon,

then go to bed.”

How did everything go so wrong

when I did the right thing?

I don’t know what they’re saying,

hear only tangled voices

low and breaking,

then silence.

Even the night sounds

of crickets and tree frogs

are tangled.

Morning

This morning

each spoonful of akasan,

which I usually only get

for my birthday,

is hard to swallow.

Papa and Tante Lila

sit still, watching me eat.

Papa speaks first.

“I can’t keep you safe here.

The section chief

and his mother will never forget.

They will make you pay

for revealing the truth:

they are rotten to the core.

They take whatever they want.

Their greed has swallowed their hearts.

We could all be arrested—

or worse.”

He speaks slowly,

stones in his throat.

Does Papa even know about Fifina

like Tante Lila does?

“We have decided.

You will go work

for Madame Ovide. She is someone from

une grande famille,

and her home

is where your cousin Phebus

learned to cook.

Madame Ovide will pay you and send the money

you make to me.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s what women do,”

says Tante Lila.

“I meant why Madame Ovide?”

Papa clears his throat.

“Your mother and Fifina’s mother

were like sisters. They once helped

Madame Ovide when she was younger.

That’s all you need to know.”

“Your cousin Phebus

has only good things to say about her.

And you leave us no choice,”

he continues.

No choice. No more school.

No more hushed afternoons

tracing looped letters

in sky-blue notebooks.

“You will be treated well,”

says Papa.

“These sandals were your mother’s.

You’ll need them

in the city.”

Soft smooth cowhide

with polished braided straps to circle my ankles.

He must have saved them

thinking I’d grow into them

one day.

But not for this.

I step into them.

They fit me perfectly.

“Thank you, Papa.

They are beautiful.”

I kiss his cheek.

“Do I really have to go?

I promise to be good from now on.”

Tante Lila throws up her hands.

Papa sighs, looks down at the sandals.

“It’s too late now! The vengeance

of the section chief and his mother

is dangerous enough.

Fifina learned the hard way,

thanks to her father.

“But the section chief’s mother,

they say she’s a manbo

who knows

the Dark Arts.”

Tante Lila grips her rosary

so hard,

I’m afraid

the beads will break.

“You leave tomorrow morning.

Don’t even think

of sticking your nose

out of the house before then.

I’ll pack what you need.”

What I need

can’t go in a suitcase.

Dark Butterfly

Tante Lila and Papa

hug me goodbye.

I’ve never seen

Papa cry before.

Don’t want him

to let go

yet.

Papa hands me

a small leather suitcase.

“This was your mother’s.”

It is shut tight

with rope.

“I packed your Sunday dress

and a calico,”

says Tante Lila.

“Madame Ovide

will give you a uniform.”

A uniform? Am I going

into the army?

“I can’t send you letters

because I know

they’ll be opened

and the police

will read what we write,” says Papa.

“But I will send you

a small piece of wood

from whatever I am carving.

“You will know

I am thinking of you.

“Bon kouraj.”

Behind the weathered pine

mask of Papa’s face,

his eyes scan the horizon

as if courage were like

our black butterflies

that fly in the dark

toward the light.

But instead of being burned,

are filled with more life.

Flowers in Ashes

I step onto the bus,

named Bondye Si Bon , another twist of the knife.

If God is so good

then why turn me into

a girl in the shadows

at Madame Ovide’s?

Don’t ask questions.

Work in silence.

Look down when spoken to.

I repeat Tante Lila’s instructions

like the Credo at Mass

fold myself

on the bench in the back

by the window.

An old woman smoking a cob pipe

squeezes next to me,

strokes the beard

of the gray goat on her lap.

The goat looks up at her

with soft trusting eyes,

no idea how near death is.

“His name is Simalo.”

She offers me a piece of sugarcane.

Even if sweetness

feels wrong this morning,

refusing would be rude.

“Mèsi, ma kòmè.”

I try not to cough from the pipe smoke,

strain my neck

to the gap in the window,

heart thumping in my ears.

Maybe this is a good thing.

Maybe I’ll find Fifina

somewhere in the city.

Maybe that’s where

the section chief keeps her.

Each village a bumpy blur a reminder

this is the first time

I’m this far from home.

Children playing

by the side of the road

wave and smile,

the way I used to do.

I can’t wave back.

Bondye Si Bon

slows to a crawl,

leaning right on the stone-filled road.

Down below the rocky cliff,

a burnt-out skeleton

of a brother bus.

Dizzy, stomach dropping,

I stare hard at the wreck,

wild mountain flowers

sprouting from its ashes.

What if I’d been sitting on that bus

when it fell to its grave?

In a second, the valley

a clenched fist.

No time to pray

when luck runs out

so fast.

I squeeze my eyes shut

to stop the tears.

Cousin Phebus

Cousin Phebus will meet me

at the station.

Cousin Phebus who

stands tall like an African queen

with her ebony skin and

sparkling eyes

who taught me

to make dous lèt

while making me laugh

with her stories of

Madame Ovide and her rich ladies

wearing their white gloves and hats

and stockings,

talking about how to improve

the lives of Haitian women.

Not all of them are light-skinned

like Madame Ovide,

Cousin Phebus explained.

There are people

like the famous professor

Jean Price-Mars

who prove that a fine education

and a fine family

count for more.

Class is king.

The worst insult

is to call someone

a blan mannan,

those white pirates

and outlaws

no one respects.

Do Madame Ovide and her friends

really know how most of us live?

Girls like me, Fifina, and Phebus

might as well be planets in the sky

we are so far apart from them.

On the other hand,

Cousin Phebus said

they write their own magazine, La Voix des Femmes ,

so perhaps they really do care

about women’s voices.

One of their magazines

was even closed down

by the government,

which means they must

be doing something right!

And if they care about

our education,

they might help me

and Fifina

start our school.

I let myself

feel that small ray of hope

before it vanishes

behind a gray cloud.

Madame Ovide

“She’s not that bad,”

Cousin Phebus told me

two years ago,

the first time

she returned from the city.

“Even if sometimes

she loves attention.

“Madame’s husband,

now dead,

was an ambassador

so famous

his family

appears on stamps.

They own land

and houses all over

the country.”

How does it feel

to see your face on a stamp?

Moun

A jolt from the bumpy road

brings me back

from the edge of sleep.

Electric streetlamps glow

bright in Port-au-Prince,

but beyond them it’s nearly dark.

Men in white jackets with gleaming canes

and women in high heels

(some even in pants!),

their lips painted,

parade along a wide road.

Phebus was right about

seeing every color

under the sun.

I remember the time she wrote down

all the categories

made by the French

before we freed ourselves,

based on how much black blood we had.

The numbers meant nothing to me,

but we still use their labels:

sacatra, griffe, marabou, mulatre,

quarteron, metis, mamelouk,

quarteronné, sang-mêlé.

Of course to the sòlda Ameriken yo,

we were all lumped in one pile.

When people like the Ovides

realized this, and felt the sting of losing

their rank and status,

unity became more important

than all the categories.

We all understood that

being a mulatre, like being a blan,

was about much more than color.

After all, “blan”

means a foreigner

of any color.

“Tout moun se moun,”

says our proverb.

Every person

is a person.

It was us against them .

Stones in the Sun

A band of gleaming brass

plays marching tunes

beneath the gazebo.

“This is the Champ de Mars,”

says the goat lady,

tugging gently at Simalo’s beard.

I twist in my seat

to take in every sight.

At least the market women

look like the ones back home.

One taps on my open window,

trying for a last sale,

but the bananas and papayas

here look smaller and paler.

The market woman holds up

a paper cone of roasted peanuts

that smell so good

I’m tempted to spend

the centimes Papa gave me.

This is the time of day

I’d say goodbye

to Mapou,

put down the pine

I was carving,

and go home to eat.

My stomach growls.

I can smell goat meat grilling

in our courtyard.

I can see Tante Lila

shaping the flour

for cloud dumplings.

I’ll show them all.

I’ll find Fifina

and bring her back,

no matter how long it takes.

I found Mapou, after all.

I can dream

the truth

again.

Bondye Si Bon groans to a stop

at the end of the road.

The woman with the goat moves

him from her lap.

He stands up, wobbling

like a child learning to walk.

She grips the rope

around his neck

with knotted fingers,

steadies herself

on my shoulder,

and leans in close.

“Country, city,

where the street

makes a corner.

It doesn’t matter

where you go.

“Stones in the water

don’t know the pain

of stones in the sun.”

She waves goodbye,

pauses, and sighs,

then walks away slowly

from Bondye Si Bon.