by: Jillian Christmas
Stepping off the plane in Whitehorse
The last thing I expect to see
is home
Imagining I might roam this great black north
not quite alone but close enough.
Chris points out the window
“That’s Antoinette’s, Caribbean food
if you’re feeling in need of a pick-me-up
She’s from Tobago.”
And I’m not sure if he knows that it’s
the island that bred these bones,
That just the song of its name on his lips
is home.
And what strange things are we
Creatures of the Diaspora
treasures of the Caribbean sea
Knocking our knees together in parkas
chattering teeth
Up where the trees thin and creak
stretching high the heavens to
seek the queerest light
What strange escapes have we made in the night
to want to call this place home?
And I do.
I do
Feel the ghosts
Of women not unlike us
Examples of resilience and fortitude
Pulling more than gold and dust and opportunity
Out of this blistering cold.
I am told the Alaska Highway
Was an engineering feat
Built under the doubt and bloody weight of Jim Crow
And what strange things are we
That we can see a barrier
but build a road;
I know this to be true:
There is not always a way around,
