BUSH
by M. James Cooper
...No new religion needed, they were fine. So on the white-man's Christian God's Sunday, the day he thought about what it meant to be Christ-like, the sons and daughters of colonial oppression saw fit to love themselves. Taking their belabored bodies, the hands and feet along with the song of mouths, somehow these were often forgotten about until day seven. They gathered and walked slowly down the path situated behind the barracks where they lived, further and a slight turn down past the first cluster of poui-trees, back behind dey'so, by the bush. Another world it was. Surrounded by tall swaying grass that kept the trees company, a never ending courtship. Big stones to make short people tall, or resting place for a bleeding man to ketch'he'self good. Even in 1834, after emancipation, this kind of activity was illegal, nonetheless, their blood required it. In a sky full of stars they were the bottom. It was day now, but after the stars performed to perfection just a few hours ago, here came Dawn with her sun-rays, beating the waters surface making Ocean and River shine, showing off, something spectacular. Six days of waiting, working his land made for languid feet; SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! went the branches, feet no longer dragging the ground and the warmth of the sun urged heads up and forward. Circling the gayelle, in preparation, drummers warmed their hands on stretched surfaces. Men wearing loose fitting pants made of cotton, tied at the waist and rolled on itself, alpargatas covered their feet, bare backs. Those entering the gayelle from the path reached hands to make a clean break and took with them a good sized piece of poui-branch for today's Kalenda...
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