Jenny Mitchell

Cannibal of the Indies

His portrait dominates the house museum,
large oil in a gilt frame broods above a fireplace,
great marble folly never used. In the damp heat,
paint pulses on his upper lip. Sharp eyes trail
babbling tourists keen to view a planter’s home,
not slaver on the many signs along a parquet floor. 

Each tile’s a shade of skin laid down with care,
flayed by his whips. A score of dark intestines
curl inside a glass display. Some hold a trace of flesh.
If you look close, a brace suggests a broken neck,
head crushed. With his own hands, he chose the books.
Each covering is sleek, not calf or kid but child.  

A sofa near the door is plump: trapped girls
endured harsh punishment. His lips appear to part.
He wants to shout at those who touch his antique chairs,
stiff-backed, spines placed with care. No mention on the signs
of blood. Puddles of organza silk frame the view,
once lawn, now paid carpark with a hanging oak. 

Sunlight that’s reflected back falls on a large display of eyes,
plucked out, reformed as paperweights neat on his desk,
beside the skull of his last hunting beast, grey mastiff
known to have sharp teeth eager for a human taste.
It stares towards a corner of the room. Paint peels
to show a glimpse of handmade brick, blood-red.

How to be a Black British Tourist

 I walk towards a distant graveyard slowly
as the other hotel guests hurry into a restaurant,
the largest in Jamaica, filled with grinning local staff.
Up ahead, there’s a cawing bird demanding food. 

As the other hotel guests hurry into a restaurant,
I go deeper inside the forest. A gravestone appears
up ahead. There’s a cawing bird demanding food.
It cries out again before disappearing into the willow trees.

I go deeper. Inside the forest, a gravestone appears
to turn over. I look closer, to see the slave names.
A bird cries out, Before disappearing into the willow trees,
try to keep both eyes open. My stomach roils. As it begins  

to turn over, the bird cries, Look closer, see the slave names
are much clearer now. I want to lie down, feel dizzy,
try to keep both eyes open. My stomach roils. As it begins
to throb, I hear, Search for your ancestors. Their names

are much clearer. I want to lie down, finding my name
carved in the stone. As the ground starts to shift and
throb, I hear, Search for your ancestors’ names.
Know who you really are or must we force you?

Finding my face carved in the stone as the ground starts
to shift, I run back to the hotel. Grinning staff call out, Try
to know who you really are or must we force you? Again,
I walk towards a distant graveyard slowly.

Jenny Mitchell is winner of the Poetry Book Awards for her second collection Map of a Plantation. It was chosen as a ‘Literary Find’ in the Irish Independent and a Poetry Kit Book of the Month. She has won the Ware, Folklore and Aryamati Prizes, and a Bread and Roses Award as well as several other competitions. A debut collection, Her Lost Language, was voted One of 44 Books of 2019 (Poetry Wales).