Wild Craboo

I should have known better
Than to suppose
Something so obviously fierce
Would be so polite as to make itself
Proper for my consumption.

The roots dug deep
Unhindered by rocky terrain
Flourishing where no other would
Or could.
Standing proud against the wind
On the steep hillside.

And bunched on the ends
Of each obstinate limb
Were the exotic berries.
Seductive hues of yellow
And angry shades of orange and red.
I plucked one, bit down
And the berry bit back.

Angry spears of tart stab defiantly
At a rude, presumptuous tongue
The taste of tears
From a dwindling race.
Sweat of an enslaved people.
Of saltwater graves
For "excess cargo".

The fruit rejected, and ejected
From my pursed lips.
The crushed body splatters
Like desperate Arawak
Below seashore cliffs
That seed will grow,
Those souls pass on,
And one man shall not benefit
From another's suffering.

How lucky for this tree,
Perhaps lucky for me,
That my mother's skin was brown
My thoughts at this moment
the thoughts of the earth.
And yet, I can see
There's something in my father's green eyes
Telling me "Chop the damn tree down."

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Andre Marsden is an aspiring poetry and fiction writer currently living in Belmopan, Belize. You can find more of his work at http://eulogyforajournal.blogspot.com/