My Love Starts On Sunday

I thought I’d share my favourite poem with you. Have a good week.

My Love starts on Sunday

My Love starts on Sunday
10am wood-bread delivery
Hot tea, from plants in the yard
Mint, Cattle-tongue, White-head broom, French thyme or some other
The preparation of chap-up, fatted salt fish, boiled eggs
Or some other anything
And sometimes nothing
As this weekly routine is carried out as it has been since Mama
We wait, as my great grandmother did
On the 10am Sunday wood-bread delivery
We wait, for the son of the long gone father who had served Mama
We wait, every week, to greet tradition, unbroken by heavy rains
Unbroken by overflooded bridges, malfunctioning stoves and vehicles
Sick or late chefs, international, and local holidays
Unbroken
A little late
Unbroken
A little early
Unbroken
A bread, a tart, a bun missing
Unbroken
This,
The only action I have ever shared with Mama
A woman known for her fierce strength, and great care
A woman, whose face I have never seen
Whose name I may never know
Whose stories upon which mother, aunts, and grands reminisce in sweet sadness
I hold on to this
Unbroken
And now…
As I think to the forward path I’m on
The path of broken
I fear
That I won’t share the vicinity in which she once lived
The sight of the road along which she once trod
Drunk, nails sunk into mother’s neck for support
As she preached her sobriety
Broken
I will be from the only Earth I’ve known
From the only sounds I wake to
On a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday
As the cock wakes me, as he wakes,
As the pipe, breaks my slumber beating the bottom of an empty bucket
Broken
From the sight of the old buildings in my grandmother’s yard
And the ones across the road
The ones in which my mother was raised for part of her young life
The ones in which I watched my cousins play
The ones in which I played, and hid
And stare out to occasionally, to recall memories told to me
Of the days when my grandmother sold rum, and had a jukebox
And the yard was filled with hard-working, card-playing customers sharing stories, laughter, and advice
Broken
I will be
From the essential me
Broken
From the sound fowls flapping their wings in ascent to the surrounding mango tree
The sound of sunset it is to me
Broken
My Love starts on Sunday
Every Sunday without this love ending it begins once again
The day I leave maybe the day of broken
But every week
My Love starts on Sunday
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