sullen sons silently wield machetes in a slow skulk down a dusty road long-legged daughters are silent too- spiders sitting idle out front weathered shacks painting glitter over bubblegum polish rainbow curlers bobbing round their heads occasionally stirring odd chicken parts that simmer and brown on the stove all day someone stuck a drying starfish in the mossy palm-trees trunk someone raked dried leaves from the sand early morning shadows flickered cross-hatched on the walls of the thatched roof hut where the hatchet is buried let bygones be bygones stash it flash it mash it up baby wild island dogs curl in sleep- now and then opening a weary eye just to make sure all is still safe secret shack a poem by loretta oleck hidden behind a thicket of boughs alive with snarled vines was a pink shack with a lopsided door- a leaning sentry guarding rotted wood floors and ripped curtains of tangled lace and a broken clocks face where the hands had stopped at half past four snapping open a blade i crudely carved my name above the door then distracted by amezuzahtilted on the frame the blade slipped on the tail of the lettery slashing through history and time splicing through the door screen slicing through my lifeline- a bloodied omen a ticking time bomb scarring my palm i had thought claiming doors would be easy and would make me brave i had no idea my lifeline could be altered with a blade i had thought i was the only jew on this island- apparently others had found this door too saffron life a poem by loretta oleck i lived a saffron life a midnight howl walking winding alleyways of bustling markets following trails past pails of scuttling cobalt crabs and buckets of jasmine rice into the heart of the safflower scent i lived a saffron life plaiting my past from spiceberry silk a velvet widow spider in a vacant window frame weaving gossamer curtains to be pulled up or down depending upon my darkest or lightest mood or the squall of the caribbean wind or the direction of the rooftop weather vane i followed shadows of patterned cloth swaying like dancers holding tight to wooden clothespins straddling the frayed line down a crooked path towards arms outstretched into the sun silk center of the labyrinth diana a poem by clinton van inman drag your white skull before blind seas that tumble dazed to your mono-eyed magic .