Searching for markers, identity
to fulfil a need to be positioned amidst the monochromatic maelstrom of affirming whose lives matter:
can I be found in the twisty dark mixed curls of my noble son
or hidden in the surround of my fair Grannie’s sun-killed arms?
Am I carrying it in the strong, shapely legs of my paternal sweet-souled grandmother, or perhaps it
stems from my tall mocha grand namesake who proudly speaks of Arawak genes.
These big sepia eyes (from the mother who sees everything and gifted ocular symmetry to her daughters and another curly-headed grandson) look back at me blankly as I
whether it can be found in the culinary always-too-many-dishes spreads I have prepared, hidden in the spices, smells and secret auntie recipes.
Am I finding it in the newly natural textures of my resembles-me hair during Wash Day?
I search the reflection of the carbon copy image of my father during our Atlantic-crossing video call, hopeful for a clue.
I change direction and ponder whether it is less internally, genetically determined and could it be shaped by the mountainous gap year, the riotous years running amok in the cobbled streets of a roman city. Was there a bend in this malleable legacy from the BL postcodes during the recent crystal years?
Finally my thoughts land on the cultural inheritance I share with my preschooler son in this new island life I yearned for and manifested? I listen for the answer as he walks down the stairs singing take me to the river in pure Talking Heads tones.