By Samantha Thornhill

Is five years now I dead
and my husband does still go
to the old years fete with them
good looks that beat all cockfight.
Surrounded by his old time partners—
stink mouth men full of old talk—
he sip his ponchacreme
as they talk talk talk
like they eat parrot bottom!
Smelling of sweet soap and bay rum,
vein full of barbadine and beat pan,
my husband so short,
you could drink soup on he head!
And he could win any limbo
contest in Port of Spain with a back
straight as bamboo shoot!

Ay! Ay! I see Mags Carmichael
in the corner over so
giving he plenty sweet eye, still
thinking he go want she
with that breath like stinking toe!
And the rest of the widows circling
he like the blades of a windmill,
wagging they bamsees
like force ripe schoolgirls
as he shuffle he foot to old time
Calypso, sway he hips to Parang
and close he eye to all my favorite tunes.

But watch he, nuh. He must
still love me too bad.

Everybody think he forget me
because he never visit my grave
but does come to every lime,
hair slick back like a Dougla
and shoes well shine. Let
the cock bottom widows think
he does come to watch them wine
they waists and dance
like oil in a hot pan.

Cause my husband damn well know
I eh never miss a good fete
a day in my life, and something
as stupid as death will not
change that!

Just a few ticks
till the New Year, and I know
he waiting for me
to come and dance with he
like in the earlies—on like boil corn.
I see he standing up so
in the middle of the fete
with he eyes closed, crooning
down the place in his whiny-whiny
falsetto. I drift over so, stand
up tall-tall in front of he,
a cobweb broom. He open
he eye, look through me
oxygen breasts and hydrogen hips.
He hold he wedding hand up
in the sky, and I take it
as he drape he other arm across
this dreaming continent,
my back,
where it should be,
and we dance just so
into another new year.