My family has an old house,

and still,

bright flowery yellow walls

greet me.

If I breathe deeply enough,

the air becomes sweet

with molasses,

the voice of my mother

singing to

sunday gospel,

thyme and garlic

thick in the air.

Our pink rooms and

blithesome voices

filling

the emptiness.

But that is not where I was

raised,

my mother’s tunes were

only a cover for

skeletons etched into

the floors,

and that her children

wouldn’t hear my father,

one hand on his switch,

Woman fi get lick like pickney,

Don’t mash up me food

Her voice would

turn shrill

under the sweet morning air.

She once told us that

meant a game of hide,

and she would come

seek us when it was over.

She never did find us.

Instead,

we found her, bloodied body

hunched over the still lit stove,

singing flesh crackling

in that mangled tune,

my father over her,

burnt chicken in his hand.

Neptune Naiadis is a writer whose work has appeared in publications such as the Caribbean Writers Journal and Rebel Women Lit. She is a current student at the University of the West Indies and an aspiring novelist, young media writer, and businesswoman with a small handcrafted jewelry business. As of 2021, her favorite book is Kingston Noir.

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