I rake the bleached, washed ½ inch gravel I ordered
for my driveway; rake it like the slaves of ancestors
raked salt in the Salinas in Turks, Caicos, as if raking
whiteness out of the ocean, what belonged to a few.
I call it my beach in New England, the glare welcomes
as I make footprints into it, back and forth to my Saab.
The hibiscus planted in the urns will sun their chins
over it, feel the sub-tropical heat waves rise up. Such
simple things make a home. A Mediterranean
shimmer is a carpet transporting. A bridge to
warmth that will slosh up, into windowpanes
arranged like bar glasses to catch it, quench a thirst.
Published in Journal of Postcolonial Writing (UK)
