Quake

Imperiled existence, florid non-existence: at any moment. Winds can blow, from bad to worst. And grounds can be breached. Unmanageable becomes impassible. And the impossible becomes probable. It is the surreal reception of unrequited love. Again.

And She, newest goddess, Anaika Saint Louis, is alive in mortal form for 11 years prior. Then trapped in instantaneous rubble, she be. Right leg pinned, now forcibly engaged, held in the breach. So young, premature, a breech presentation: Foot first into a world, testing the entry with entreaty: “Mother, don’t let me die.”

She wore eyeglasses given to her to protect her eyes from the rabblesque rubble. And how right this was, this dusty visual premonition of a future dream already rapidly I moving to oblivion. Anaika would never be jurisprudent, would never become out of her sobriquet, the little lawyer.

Rescue does not lead to life. Verdict was passed. Sentence was ended.

But no: She lives for me in glory. In the glory of post-crucifixion quake, She lives in and beyond tremble, shake, and shudder. She is stronger than a sudden release of earth crust energy. She is seismic.

She carries in herself the imprint of her nation. One view might be seeing her as reminiscent of the Queen Anacaona, who was deceived into festivity attendance only to be executed in front of her people. But I see the power of Haiti. I see the first independent Latin American colony. I see the first post-colonial black-led nation. And most important for a pirate, I see the first slave rebellion leading to independence.

All of this power lives in our newest goddess. From the poor, the rough, the dangerous that is Cite Soleil, city of the sun, she emerges, archetypal power born of pain. Out of 200,000 dead and crushed palace and parliament, out of chaos and question unanswerable She rises, phoenix for a new time and place.

Hispaniola was haven for pirates. Jean Lafitte was born in Port-au-Prince. Columbus did not find Haiti; Haiti found him. And Haiti created Creole, language emerging out of need, and song and life in spite of many renting waves.

I feel my heart start trembling whenever you’re around.

And you know who you are: Not terra firma, but terra incognita. You are the unmapped lands of which cartographers sing “here dragons be.” You are insight into the infinite, the fractal fracturing of ordinary preoccupation. You remind me of who I am, really, beyond any small label or enterprise or idol.

You break the icy concretized vault that traps the molten passion of my deepest mind-heart. You die not, but live in the place in all that is nobility and piracy and liberated lunacy.

Who is trapped? Who has died?

Only the false notions of rivers that can be re-tasted, or grounds that are more than constructions in process. This is the true revolt, the amniote molt, the infinite rescue, moment by moment. What lives is rising and falling sans tectonic foundation, Perelandra paradises vibrating in bliss.

You are mother, and you will never die. You dwell among the untrodden ways, intimating immortality.

And to you, Anaika, piracy steals dedication from Wadsworth to your political father, Toussaint L’Ouverture, and gives it to you:

“Thy friends are exultations, agonies,

And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.”

Thanks from the humble heart of this pirate. 

— Rx is the FloridaW eekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx ma y be wearing a pir ate cloak of in visibility, but emanating fr om within this shado w is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who kno ws: You may e ven inspir e the muse. Make contact if you dare.