Poem: The dark

I fear it's the same as in the old days

Do Jamaican parents still delight in terrorizing their children?

I'd like to forgive it

to say that my mother and her siblings were country folk

so as they laughed like idiots

at making their children tremble in fear

they were ignorant --

not aware that they were building a cavern of fear in our souls.

It's hard, though.

I can forgive the lies they told.

Yes, they were conscienceless in the way they

told self-serving stories to keep their children in line.

I can forgive that.

I can forgive their beatings

and the belts they named:

Stinger with its metal-tip,

Scorpion with its cruel sting.

I can forgive that.

Because they were country folks 

and whuppin was what they did cause they loved you

and wanted to set you on the right path.

But the fear and trembling I strive to forgive.

Because there was spite in their cruel power

when they told us of cruel ghosts inhabiting the dark

when they lay in wait behind walls -- belts in hand-- ready to strike

when they told us what happened to little girls

who do not listen to their mothers and who did not wipe their hands properly

because they had such petty joy in creating terror in us,

because surely there was some other way to make themselves powerful in their own eyes --

other than stampeding kids' hearts.

Because even now the cavern of fear they built inside me

is still operational

when the phone rings

when the mailman comes

when I feel some sudden change in my body.

Because these are seeds 

my mother, aunts, and uncles planted in me

and all that terror

all that fear

is still ingrained

and ever blossoming in me.