Blackbox Manifold

Issue 13: Andre Bagoo


The earth did not know where to put the bridge

and so it made storms for us.

Water, pulled like diamonds from soil;

columns of wind; cables of jet stream—

as the earth turned they linked to Africa.

We would share the spiralling Atlantic.

We were glad. For the lawn grew each year.

The scorched mountains became green.

Rivers came to life. The ponds filled.

Until we could not leave the house.

For water had shut the doors.

Water, as immaculate as mud,

rushing round corners, under beds.

Water that disappears if you stand still.

We could not leave the house.

The Carnival band passed.

At dawn they held flambeaux

and bathed in the earth.

Sacred Heart

I. Dry Season

I dreamt I was late for Parliament.

When I ran along the Promenade

I turned into a wave.

My favorite time of day is morning

just after dreaming.

You can be deadly still

then make strange noises:

sighs and purrs. Softly,

they are swallowed

by kiskadees.

Sleeping, I see you


your crossed position.

II. Wet Season

At last I’ve figured it out

What it means

to enter the Dragon’s Mouth.

What it means is fired on us

upon stone, means to a higher end.

Stepping up your hibiscus throat, the higher end,

red ladder to my driven dreams.

What it could mean, could

happen to us now.

At last dou dou

I’ve figured you.  

III. With Boundless Faith

Trains don’t run here anymore

But when they did the men wept

The women leapt into the carriages

And bodies were strewn on the land

Exquisite torture ruled us

Slaves after death, coup de poudre

The nation now a marriage

Of machine and art

Our bodies came alive

At their destinations

Andre Bagoo is a journalist and poet from Trinidad. His second book of poems, BURN, is due from Shearsman Books in 2015.