Corn Beef Can Key
for I.G.

must tighten, make taut,
the strings of the waves, must take the wrinkles out

must straighten my bed, must fix the table cloth

someone’s arriving, coming for dinner by candle light,
coming across the sea, coming to be with me

guest I’ve awaited all these years
I’ve waited ages for waves to arrive, to reach the shore
rocks against which, waves break into whiteness

untroubled waters for my love to cross, for my love to walk

it’s Saturday, she’s journeying, she’s joining me
she’s coming for dinner this Sunday

I must be there, upon the shore, where her journey ends,
when her journey ends I must wave


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
7:58 a.m. 18/feb/06


Role To Play
for I.G.

I wish I had your company constantly
to rely upon, to keep, to keep me

instead of being able to see you only every now and then
when able to spare an evening of minutes
with old greybeard

wiping, squeezing tears from your eyes
when I make you laugh and cry

I wish I had your company constantly,
instead of now and then, instead of when, after weeks,
you show up to assure me I am not alone in this world,
not entirely forgotten

like a roll upon a paper plate, which dropped and rolled
dozens of pairs of legs, of feet to watch go by

such a roll for the cleaning lady to pick up after,
to dispose of

in her great, grey, plastic, garbage bag


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
1:25 p.m. 18/feb/06


Careful Steps Careful Hands
of I.G.

unlike me, she is careful
not to break her soul’s skin with immorality,
with rough words, with a rough move or rough mood

the soul, as vulnerable as germs,
which I understand,
die when we soap and wash our hands,
because we break their skins

I break the skin of my soul with sin, from within,
with sinful thoughts, with sinful deeds

as if I’d open eyes of my soul, mouth of my soul
too wide

my soul, at times, difficult to defecate, must strain
I clean after, with tissue, to find my soul injured
upon the tissue I clean with, streaks of blood

she keeps her soul intact with delicate ways, delicate days
my days are ruptured, every one, wounded somehow

I open eyes, mouth, too wide to take in life
or irritate, when I clear my throat,
when I hawk and spit out what I detest
and am determined to get rid of


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
1:44 p.m. 18/feb/06


Empty Me Into This World

my poems are all translations into English,
from a language I should have been speaking,
would have been speaking
had slavery never happened

upon second thoughts though,
had slavery never happened,
I could not have, would not have,
would never have existed

European parts, African parts,
Arawak, Carib, Tino Indian parts
would never have touched to create this new race
which peoples the new world,
the Americas, the Caribbean


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
2:28 p.m. 18/feb/06


Watch Face
of I.G.

own you, my own you

such a one for me to put my arms about,
to slip in my pocket like watch with chain
to draw you up, to draw you out

like water in a bucket from a well
to stare at your face, to stare at mine

like little boy expecting galiwasp,
staring upon himself in a pond


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2006
3:56 p.m. 18/feb/06