Notes on Milk River

We imagine painted cottages open to the breeze, under
these trees dripping with mangoes, on soil so rich
every seed can grow. In a sensible country, this mineral spring—
fifty times more active, more healing than Vichy—would be,
as they say, developed. We look at each other and shake
our heads—it wouldn’t take much, but then again,
it would, in this country that won’t tax the rich and can’t tax
the poor, a country without street signs, without—
It’s either tourists or Jamaicans here,
with gates and guards or without—

The road still washed out from the last hurricane, the Long Bay Morass
closed in by mountains and made up of mangroves. The beach
littered with plastic, dogs, and squatters in their shacks
of aluminum and scrap—built room by added room. No need
for heat, a bathroom, or running water.