At that impossible crease-both boiling water and iceberg's tip,
where heaven and hell play grab ass and shove each other
for the right footing,
He stands guard,
leaning against a wall that is all metaphysics,
his crisp white hat hung low over his charcoal face,
a bone-colored toothpick glows
in between thick, blue-black lips,
like a solitary hay-needle on tar.
In Haiti, they call him maitre-minuit:
master of midnight, master of twilight,
master of crossroads, lord of all things undecided. Cool cat
Loitering in cemeteries and dipping into dark places. Seen
yet unseen, if only for the booming echo that cracks walls
and sends genuflecting angels crashing headfirst to earth
whenever he opens his mouth.
He's the quiet one
with the scale's golden links burrowing deep
into his flesh as he sways from side to side
in the tedious business of balance.
That stench he brings with him--
It is sulfur and hellfire, his hands always burning
yellow flames the color of hepatic urine.
Hermes in black face
and over-white teeth, he smiles
as men wanting other men dead
lay rum, sugar-cane, and cheap cologne at his feet. |
