Night Falls

One bird circles above the synagogue. It must be admiring the view of it and the mosque side by side. Blackbirds fly on and off the tree, covering the gravestones of Jews that lived and died on Surinamese soil, centuries past. Chanting their night melody, they fly in groups or solo. It’s like they’re having an evening chat.

The circling bird has flown away, out of sight and into the evening. Here and there the sky blue is blocked by clouds of grey and rays of the setting sun have painted them red. More birds arrive as others leave. But it is still a busy congress of chirps. No matter how relaxing it is, my shoulders can’t seem to settle down. Maybe because I need a floating river instead of a stagnate stinking gutter. I cannot believe the Jews have let it come to this. 

The moon let’s the sun display her as half a buttock. As the chirping and flapping orchestra goes on, a night lamp sets on buzzing some safety into the night. Above the Jew tree, sun baked clouds shimmer and quickly cover the slow changing of shades into nighttime.

I picture old Paramaribo in my head with carriages and horses, slaves and merry women. I picture oil lamps being held up to light alleys and bottles of cherry or brandy. The sun baked clouds have turned s light red, close to pink. They are slowly fading in their path to the moon.

The flying birds create a picture of small black plus signs against the evening sky. Their numbers are lessening and the clouds are neon-pink…almost non-existent.

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The deep sky

And this thing keeps spinning in my head. round and round. like a merry go round.
I can’t explain it. I don’t think I can take it any longer. Whatever it is, I need it to stop.

The rain has reached my underwear. As if I’ve been standing naked in the shower for an hour. My body is shaking. But I’m just walking. There has never been a rain like this before.

The words I think. The feelings I encounter inside this meager skin. My head is pounding. I think it’s having fun, pretending it’s driving around a tiny block and not ready to decide when it’ll go home.

I hear myself laughing. Breathing heavily. Now sighing. my forehead is frowning. What are these words. They are jumping jets above the place all the buzzing comes from. My underlips are inside my mouth. Breathe in breathe out. If I stop, the road will end underneath me.

Almost nothing is working properly. My feet remember the way, that makes it all okay. Should I stop, everything will tumble underneath the earth and this, whatever I am now, will be gone.

I’m trying to get her back, the girl I was. She just decided to walk away someday and never gave me any sign. Until now, there hasn’t been any explanation. Until now? When is now? Where is now.

The day is trying to go away. But I won’t let it. It has to stay! We’ve been trying so hard to make it. What would it give if I was naked right now? I mean, we’re standing in a giant shower. The pipes aren’t leaking. Everything in here works perfectly.

When SheMaya left, I had no idea I was alone, until this buzzing started. I asked her what was going on. No reply. I waited for the yellow pills. I guess she took them along.

Where would I go if I was an imagination? If I was an idea to keep a frightened head alive. And safe. Again, my underlips are inside my mouth and my teeth suck all the water they’ve been holding outside.

I hope the sun doesn’t wake up any time soon. Maybe she’s being held captive by the moon. I used to love the night. Especially her coldness. I loved to fill her loneliness when Maya was by my side. I guess she’s holding me now, because like her, there’s no one to catch me until the sunlight brakes the gloom.

Path

The cold creeps up my legs
I set them one before another
Wandering further in the night
The morning is still a few hours away
But I swear I can hear the first dew drops dissapear
This isn’t the first night that I walk like this
And there are countless more to come
I feel the stories that I’ve been told mumbling up my lips
A poem about my identity rise up inside of me
I wave it off with a tougth of a wonderful office and cute notebook and sharp pencil to write it in
The soul of my ancestors dance in my mind
Sing a song in my spirit
My hoody keeps the cold wind outside
And gets me closer to comfort
The music in my head sighs under the sound in my ear
Leaving the word of the recording artist somewhere in my heals
In the steps I take into taking over the night
Streetlights in my back cast me further into the dark
Barking dogs hold my hand on my bag
My breath peaks over my lungs and escapes my lips or nostrils now and then
The shadows of the palmtrees and the contoures of my nest drive me to relief
The door creaks as I step inside
The dark is still out there
My heart leaps at the sight of comfort:
A sofa, pencil and cuaderno waiting for my rusttled excitement and the threads of my ancestors, the storytellers that dance in my veins