Her sisters, her daughters, the crippled son
who shared with her the one room house
agreed Mama wasn't looking right.
No easy feat to convince her see a doctor.
Cajoled, pushed and pulled, the Matriarch
is forced into a taxi, her impressive size.
She sheen and black in a made in a U.K.cab
rolls down the hill to Port of Spain
little houses on both sides.
Foot on brake manage the steep,
Hold the narrow towards Fisherman's Beach
Cab careens, driver rear views the passenger.
Grumble they mumble, the ride is a rumble
Matriarch insists Hussein turn around
No clinic today nor ever
I'll die here where I sit. Yep, Hussein turns around in their cab.
Word gets around.
Back in her homestead, Mama tip toes to window
where pipe in hand for decades she pondered
the flatness and shimmer of the Caribbean.
Then, grasping her chest, she heads to the four post bed
between the prints of St. Jude Thaddeus and Archangel Gabriel
squashing the head of Dragon, pictorial representation of Satan.
And there dies she, Notable Healer Woman
Village midwife of dozens
who also could freeze snakes at 16 paces.
She smiles that last smile
few of us shall be blessed to smile
upon our dying bed.
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