Originally published in Tongues of the Ocean.
issue 1 february 2009
I have a new spade,
a new brand spade
that yearn to plant banana.
All I need now is land.
The spade: him too clean.
Him want dig bad though,
right in that fertile place
between the branches,
the sacred spot
where the roots does hide.
But I wish virgin earth for me novice;
earth that cannot compare him to tractor.
Land that ain’t been squatted on,
slashed and burnt,
or worse yet,
claimed by some foreigner.
But I not picky.
I only want me own garden.
A place to return.
A place I belong.
I want to wake up and hear the soil singing,
telling me I do me job well.
I only want me own garden
a little patch where I can dig till I silly.
Plant banana morning, noon and night,
Open the hole and put in me fertilize,
fill it with sap
from nighttime ritual and early morning dance.
See, this a real seller’s market.
Good, pure native earth so hard to find
Earth that is solid,
land that is worth the time
What no real estate agent can show you.
Me new brand spade restless.
See, him want work!
See, him want dig!
Him want plant this banana sucker deep,
as far as it can go.
Plant it like flag pole.
Look here man!
Give me land where I can climb the hills
and feel them real good.
I want smell the air man,
lick the dew right off the leaves in the morning time
while the banana them ripening.
This what I will do with the land,
that earth that would receive me,
I will treat it well fine
trust me it ain’t go ever complain.
But remember,
I not too picky.
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