The poetry is inescapable, sitting on the remaining part of the second floor of the collapsed art school in Jacmel. The breeze passes quietly over my skin and scattered, forgotten canvass. Crumbled cement chunks grate against my shoes, broken wall revealing the turquoise sea. The sea and the courtyard below, filled with tents and bright sculptured masks--and artists with more hair and smoke and inspiration than clothes.
The waves mix with the wind sounds through mango tree leaves, mangoes at eye level now. To my left, the energy changes. Broken red door and stairway to the abandoned office, crumbled wall opening the view of the UN compound, soldiers overly armed, with vehicles outnumbering people behind a high fence.
I still haven't understood if the school's director died here or in his home.
A salamander wiggles along the broken wooden window;
a goat along the beach forages and bleats;
the men sit around, slapping down dominoes.
I sit apart, just for today, letting the spirit of what this place used to be touch me, hoping it can help me to better enter the energy now.
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