My father’s car is white, it looks split
in two; put together with spit,
glue, and grey potty goo. I broke
the radio antenna, and said, “I
think I broke your radio antenna,” (though
I was convinced this was untrue, I
think I broke it for spite, to spite and despite
you). I think I broke you, am not sure who
broke this in two. We sit back,
black asphalt rolling beneath us, a lack
of talk, a big sexy backseat, a dangling rosary:
We are going to church, but the gas tank is empty.
There is a taste of white wafer on my tongue;
a stickiness all over my sweaty body.
I try to remember the name
of the gospel song on the radio as we
turn into a gas station. The attendant doesn’t see
me. He crows to you.
You ask me to pay
—you’re broke, you say.
•••Andre Bagoo is a journalist working in Trinidad. In 2005 he was shortlisted for the Derek Walcott Writing Prize for his writing. He writes for Newsday and has published poems and book reviews in journals like the Boston Review, Caribbean Review of Books and Draconian Switch.