Where They Do That At? by Alan King after Jeffrey McDaniel I’m from salt fish for breakfast and coconut bake steaming on counter tops, from Byron Lee’s Dragonaires blaring through basement speakers when mom, my brother, my sister and I come home from church. I’m from card games in the backyard, from where sunsets are ice melting in Jack Daniel skies, from where gunshot victims leak mambo sauce on piss-infested streets. Ask me where I live and I’ll say at the corner of Chuck Brown Lane and Pharoahe Monch Ave, at the corner of Roti and Rotisserie. I’m from afterschool fights at the ice cream truck, fromdon’t let that green Lex with tinted windows find you wandering the neighborhood late . I’m from you lunchin’ like... andwhy you cised? fromdon’t lose a fight you ain’t start and come home not expecting another one . I’m from charcoal-scented summers and whiskey-breath evenings when the wind stumbles on its way to the next bar-b-que, from okra and callaloo bubbling in a pot, next to curry goat and stewed ox tail. I’m from electric slide lessons in the living room, and dad snatching mom from by the stove to slow dance to The Whispers. 104 theMeadow
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