during carnival
we could care less
about our bloated empty bellies
where there are voices
we are dancing
where there is vodou
we are horses
where there are drums
we are possessed
with joy and stubborn jamboree
but when the makeshift
trumpet player
runs out of rhythmic breath
the only sound left is
guts grumbling
and we sigh
to remember
that food
and freedom
are not free
— Lenelle Moïse
“mud mothers” from Haiti Glass
2014
