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Kwame Dawes

Kwame Dawes
Ghana

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Kwame Dawes

Emmy Award winning Kwame Dawes ...

BIOGRAPHY

Born in Ghana in 1962, Kwame Dawes spent most of his childhood and early adult life in Jamaica. He i... More >

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For John Mazourca
These days, the language of death
is a dialect of betrayals; the bodies
broken, placid as saints, hobble
along the tiled corridors, from room
to room. Below the dormitories
is a white squat bungalow, a chapel
from which the handclaps and choruses
rise and reach us like the scent
of a more innocent time.
I am trying to listen to the plump
Palestinian man with his swaying
rural middle-class patois, this jovial
servant, his eyes watering at the memory
of the eleven year old girl brought
to die inside these white walls,
her small body fading, her eyes
fierce with light and hungry
for wide open spaces, for decades
of discovery ahead of her.
When she came her mind was still
unable to calculate the treachery
of rape, to grasp how a man
could seek revenge on her tender body;
why as he wept when they took him
away, she wept, too, like the day
she wept when they took her mother’s
empty body away, the disease
leaving her with nothing but bones,
thin skin, the scent of chickens.
I seek refuge in distractions:
the chapel of charms down the hill;
the pure sound of my youth,
when, cleansed by the perpetual blood,
my sins were never legion enough
for despair; when the comfort
of the Holy Spirit was green as this
sloping escarpment, thick with trees,
cool against the soft sunlight.
The plump man brushes
the gleam of tears from his cheeks.
I think of the simple equations
of compassion; I think of songs,
the harmonica, the strained
harmonies, the bodies of the dying
shuffling past, eyes still hoping;
the van waiting in the shade
to take me from all this;
the long ride through rain and dark
to Kingston, to sleep and more sleep.

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