POEMS
Derek Walcott
SAINT LUCIA'S FIRST COMMUNION
At dusk, on the verge of the asphalt's worn-out ribbon,
in white cotton frock, white stockings, a black child stands.
First her, then a small field like her. Ah, it's First Communion;
you can tell by the ribboned missals in their hands,
and the stiff plaits pinned with a white satin moth.
The pupa's accordian, still pumping out the myth
of ebony branches out of whose parted mouth
the wafer pods in belief without an 'if'.
So, all across Saint Lucia now thousands of innocents
are finished on church-steps, facing the sun's lens,
standing candle-straight between head-tilting parents,
before darkness comes on like their blinded saint's.
But, if it were possible, I'd pull up on the verge
of the fading asphalt, before its headlights lance
their eyes, and housing them in my hands,
lower the window a crack, and delicately urge
the last moth delicately in, and gear the dark car
high out of town, and let them out on some hill,
their pulsing wings undusted, and watch them in thousands stagger
heavenward before it came on: the prejudice, the evil.
NIGHT·FISHING
Line, ply for each word
with the home-sick toss
of a black pirogue anchored
in stuttering phosphorous.
