GOSPEL OF NANNY-OF-THE-MAROONS

Black blood veins palace walls—
Whitehall smearing Pall Mall—
drains under auction blocks,
stains rum and sugar docks.

Anguish anchors English—
Vowels banshee howls sandwich.
Tongues jab just like daggers;
Negroes stab like niggers.

Yellow Fever buries
backra, spiting theories.
White wives wail. Our secret
prayer?  Their Ruin.  No regret.

Uphill, but out of sight,
black troop ignite black night,
torchin massas’ Bibles,
smokin out shocked cabals.

Fiercely, cleave we Maroons—
Freedom’s shadows, the moon’s
own shades.  Down from green hills,
slip we—cutthroats:  To kill.

Self-freed, we set free slaves:
Our knives gouge Europe’s graves.
Our hot eyes, our flame-breath,
toast pale swine with meet Death.

A bottle cracks; wine spurts;
next, sharp glass bites through shirts;
Planters drop, throats agape;
steel feels Joy, dealing Rape:

Our blades toy dirt-clogged holes.
Now, backra is dashed dolls,
each weeping, “Who did what
harm?”  Each Babylon rat

rears his claws,  claims they’re clean.
Through jungle serpentine,
we snatch guns, swish through leaves,
hang “Boss” like he hang “thieves.”