New Rain

I work the rice fields with my mother.
Father works cane.
We wait for the rain, praying
and hoping for full heavy clouds.
It will come and we will dance
and we will be new like the rain.

When the rain comes, we will rejoice.
We will have revival at the Apostolic church
down by the creek.
We will shout Halleluiah! Praise God!
and then cry out to Jesus to be saved.

Our fathers will come home and machetes will be
placed in leather sheaths on the shelves
by our pictures of Aristade.
Our mothers will be happy,
give us sugar rags and candied spoons.

We will have carnivals in the streets.
We will sing Creole, not French.
Our grandfathers will beat the voodoo drums,
our sisters will shake rattles, and our
brothers will blow bamboo trumpets.

Our mothers will fry yams and plantains in coconut oil.
We will drink rum and eat papaya slices.

Rain will fall in heavy drops and kiss our dancing heads.
We will shout and scream and play.
We will delight in the rain.
We will dance in it, eat it.

But rain comes slowly
moving hard like suns.
Clouds won’t break.
Thunder won’t sound.
We beat the drums, say our prayers,
but clouds won’t break
and days go on and on.
The rice is hard and hurts, but must be harvested.
There is no rest, no dancing, no delight.

There are no yams and plantains, no heavy chickens.
Just rice and cane and ground corn meal.

But the rains will come and we will dance
and we will be new like the rain.