We are in the dying days of summer.

The sky is grey, the air sticky and my spirits murky. A fine mist, that will soon turn to rain, dampens the city sounds. I hang my arm over the patio rail and feel the moisture’s cooling effects. It is a slow day, with many fires to put out, but I don’t have the energy to do more than keep my arm hanging over the edge.

hand in the rainA summer storm would be preferable to this. Heavy rains with invigorating booms of thunder shortly followed by electric flashes would extinguish the doubt, clean the sun burnt lawns and recharge my soul. A heavenly shower of cold rain falling on summer warmed asphalt, the smell of hot dirt, grease and slowly absorbed motor oil as they combine and puddle, trickling towards the storm drains. This cleansing shower will not fall.

The mist chills the air as my hair coils tightly into a halo of frizz. I watch the thin veil of moisture falling. Invisible over white sky, it is un-cloaked by the dark green row of sad pine-trees that rise between the apartment buildings. The veil briefly thickens to rain before it abruptly disappears.

Sounds of traffic reemerge; a siren in the distance is joined by another, closer, louder and moving past me. Unseen stories unfolding. The day’s pace quickens.

I am left stagnant,
with fires to attend to,
in these dying days of summer.



To the Heart of the Motherland

To the heart of the motherland
I plunged
Both eyes open
For the first time,
Lungs gasping for air,
Tears staining pale skin.
Water turquoise
Mud red
Skin dark
Faith deep. Continue reading

Dinner at Anansi’s House


Anansi invited me to his house for dinner

his kitchen,
a tired table cloth,
patched and worn, suspended between the trees.
we dined on mangoes and pears
that fell to his web.
He agile
on silken woven threads,
I clumsily trying not to slip
from the table
precariously perched between the trees.

   Continue reading

(am) My Middle Name = My Grandmother

My Middle Name = My Grandmother
My grandmother is
an old picture
of a young woman:
stories of a rebellious teen
in a small prairie town.
She is a chess trophy
kept under the sink,
and piano medals
in little boxes
in my father’s top drawer,
a ring I stole
from my mother
I felt it was rightfully mine. 
My grandmother is
other people’s memories
living on
only in
my name.
Anastasia Erika White