Long before the bobsled team ever was
my sister and I
slid down mountain slopes
past yellow beaked sentinels
on their spectacularly long legs.
Into cow pastures we sailed
on our flattened cardboard boxes
stopping only when faced
with the asses of cows.
we scrambled to our feet, giggling,
delighted we were wise not to
aim for barbed wire fences
fronting ancestral cemeteries
with their pale Jamaican ghosts
*** *** ****
Some information about the parish of St. Thomas (Jamaica) where this story takes place can be found here: