PenWomanShip

The guests had gathered to savor the Caribbean night, share cocktails and hear one of Antigua's poets read her works. Their cruise ship had docked that afternoon in St. John's Harbor, and the tourists were ready to be entertained. They sipped tall drinks and sported easy smiles, dropping comments about their jobs and status back home. The poet was barefooted and wore a loose-fitting dress that billowed as she walked. Her skin was black, the color of rich humus; the guests were newly tanned and dressed like plumaged birds. They circled about her, showing off their intellects, their literary tastes and broad-mindedness.

When the poet finished her reading-done as a favor to the hostess-she moved gracefully to one of the clustered groups. "There used to be 150 sugar mills on Antigua, grinding out sugar . . . they also ground the slaves down. Did you know that?" Her listeners shook their heads; their conversations momentarily impaled. How should they respond? They searched the poet's face for clues, but she revealed none before moving on, head held high.

She stopped by another clustered group, and said, "When Antigua got its independence from Britain, the people were so thankful. They went to church every year to thank their British God. But it was the British who enslaved us in the first place. Don't you find that quaint?"

Flitting clouds of doubt darkened some of the tourists' faces. How should they take this poet who smiled warmly but spoke of injustices that chilled their party mood? The poet's polite veneer remained unchanged when a few listeners drew back and others edged away. Some distanced themselves by retreating into implacable mindsets.

The poet continued to move about the room, stopping to chat, her comments always touching on the treatment her people endured in the Colonial times. The guests heard her with mixed reactions and sidelong glances as if to say, well, she's a poet. What can you expect? Some turned away, their backs acting as protective bulwarks against her intrusive presence.

But not one woman.

She stood apart, distinct in her aloneness, without any hovering anxiety about her solitary state. In her store-rack dress and untouched graying hair, she was an anomaly among the coifed and coutured guests. The woman had watched the poet work her way from group-to-group, overhearing snatches of conversations and observing the awkward silences and buzzing that trailed after the poet.

Several couples stood together near the woman. They had been steadily refilling their glasses with rum punch, their voices becoming louder and punctuated by bursts of laughter. The poet approached them. "Did you know that the bank with the cash machine that you use here was probably started by former slave traders? When Emancipation came, they lost their first commodity, slaves, and had to turn to their second one, money. They and the human beings they traded are dead, but the two shouldn't have come to the same end-whether that was heaven or hell."

The polite veneer that had encased the poet's genial smile cracked, revealing her raw anger. "Can you ever possibly understand why people like me cannot forgive or forget?"

A man in a floral shirt splashed with bright hibiscus colors, said, "Can't you get beyond all that?" He shrugged. "Everything happened so long ago."

"Nothing can erase my rage," the poet said, with contaminating sadness seeping from her. Softly, she added, "Not an apology, not a large sum of money. Only the impossible can ever make me be still."

The man shrugged again. "It's been interesting, but we need to go," he said, and took the arm of the silver-haired woman beside him, and propelled her over to the hostess and then out the door. As is freed from an unspoken restraint, the rest of the guests mumbled their good-byes and began hurrying away.

The poet paid no attention to the mass-and-apologetic exodus of the guests. She moved to a chair by the deck's railing that overlooked the water. She sat with hands folded in her lap, staring at the sea below, but without any apparent wonder or joy at the sight of the luminescent waves washing ashore.

The woman-who had been on the fringe of the crowd-remained behind. She slipped quietly into the chair opposite the poet and leaned forward. "I'm listening. Please, tell me more."