Snow on Port-au-Prince: A Dirge

by Ines P. Rivera-Prosdocimi

Snow covers Port-au-Prince.
At dawn, you cover the trees, the eyelids and lips
of the sleeping and those who wait.
The neighborhood priest lies quietly; a mob fights
over him, over his arms fixed and crossed over
his chest. His purple mouth holds the names
of their dead. And the concrete crucifix still sits,
a black monument within the rubble. There will be
more bodies to burn and bury. This one is
one more. Don’t be afraid of death, Anna sings.

Papa repeats Haitians have always had dignity.
They are not ashamed of being black
like most Dominicans. At dawn, Papa sits rocking
before the TV, my god, my god, as a boy
spreads his arms to the sun; his snow covered limbs.
The neighborhood priest lies quietly; a mob fights
for his soul. In the Caribbean we bury our dead
quickly, knowing coffins don’t preserve a thing.
Don’t be afraid of death, Anna sings.

Snow dust covers Port-au-Prince.
At Dawn, you cover us. You cover
our bodies and rest in our mouths. You cover
our babies. You cover our concrete castles
now fallen, and our streets. You bury
our playgrounds, and our children’s children.
You bury the orange of the flamboyan trees,
and all of the colors that are Haiti. And you cover
this holy man we cannot burn or bury,
and so we sing his name. Don’t be afraid
of death, Anna sings and sings. Brothers,
the body is still, the soul in our mouths.

Used by permission of the author.