Black and White Woman Admitting the Tropical Storm, Christiansted, St. Croix, Virgin Islands Still Life 1954
alan catlin
Night in the harbor, three masted sailboats
trussed each to each, anchor ropes and chains
slapping against painted hulls stung by hot
needlepoints of rain that drives stray dogs under
torn canvas canopies, inside porous wooden huts,
their eyes wide, terror striken as the first
thunder claps and the lightning rips down
from the storm to the ocean. Moving inland, whole
black clouds are alive with electricity, are
pushed by the wind, ripping palm leaves from
trees, pushing the nightbirds further
inland squealing as they come. Inside the thunder
and the heat, a woman's hand unfastens heavy
wooden storm shutters, drags deeply on an
unfiltered Camel cigarette admitting the wind and
the rain. In the far corner of the room, a child pretends
to sleep, struck dumb, terrorized by images of
fleeing fruit bats, the living dream creatures
forming an extra layer on his skin, rows of large
sweat boils and hives, inside of each, a vein is
being struck by forced heat; outside, the low
black clouds envelop the harbor. her eyes flash,
channeling the storm out toward the tips of her
fingers pointing out the swirling heart of night.
Rain kills her cigarette, cools the room, come
morning she'll wake up talking to the clouds of
insects gathered in the corners of the wall in
broken street Spanish, the sun will divide the
broken furniture into rooms, the biggest room
will be filled with seagulls spreading their
wings, searching broken glasses, tidal pools for
food, surrounding the forgotten boy who sees
nothing now, not even the stars inside his skin.
