Jibenson Jeremie, at home. Bois Jolie, Haiti. May, 2015
in between worlds.
entire globes, bouncing against each other, not colluding, all colliding. an academic describes the lives of haitian peasants to me. i don’t recognize them.
i know another haiti; where these same peasants work the land with intelligence, and have a sense of how to care for it, like their bodies.
another haiti whose real illness is in the city,
where the rich have little sense of what they have, and for whom the peasant is just a fictionalized reality.
and here too, my riches, my smart, far seeing, all sighted academic,
my teachers and colleagues
meander across very real landscapes, but all live in the dread
possibility that their meanderings are fiction,
not the fiction, broule or boule, of platonov (dhzan).
another, a fictional fiction.
i feel caught in between.
a wall, a fly swat.
a dust mote, just so, between turbulences,
shimmering, but not going,
because the light is rightly placed.
it will pass. night. the air flows, invisible.