Their skin is black.
Not just from race as God intended,
or from the blazing sun but
because they've taken on the colour of their trade.
From behind small piles built by bare,
methodical hands,
they sit and wait to sell their ebony wares.

Large-
no, enormous hats of straw
shield their eyes
from a sun that bakes their shanty shelter
and takes their skin to a hue of even blacker ash.

Bags and bags stacked high around them
attest to mountain trees that have
given up their souls
for the sake of hot rice and beans,
fried grilot,
casava,
or roasted corn.
They hope that come dark evening,
the bags will have diminished.

Their life span won't be long,
these charcoal ladies,
for the dust must lie heavy in their lungs.
But, for now, their eyes sparkle like cinders
and they keep the face of Haiti bright.

Port-au-Prince
April 1999