These islands
not picture postcards
for unravelling tourist
you know
these islands real
more real
than flesh and blood
past stone
past foam
these islands split
bone

my mother's breasts
like sleeping volcanoes
who know
what kinda sulph-furious
cancer tricking her
below
while the wind
constantly whipping
my father's tears
to salty hurricanes
and my grandmother's croon
sifting sand
water mirroring palm
Poverty is the price
we pay for the sun girl
run come