Klòch sonm té ka sonnen an laplas vil-la.
Pa Dyab-la, mé mwen konnèt li byen.
Mwen té ka maché asou gwan lawi-a bò koté’y kon on ti-manmay ki pa konnèt anyen, té tounen koté i ka dòmi-an.
Toujou tounanté pa an kuryozité ki pa ni bout, pa kaché pyès detay ban mwen.
Klòch sonm té ka sonnen tout apwémidi-a, mé ou mantjé yo.
Twòp fon adan pè lavi-a pou ou té sa wè sa,
Twòp bizi ka kalkilé mannyè pou lévé drapo wézistans.
On ti-not pèsonèl sòti koté édito politik-la <mété magazin gwòch radikal>, nou tèlman dézolè nou pa sa piblyé sa kwiyé-ou pou wévolisyonè-an.
Sa pa fè anyen, lè jounal litérè-a ka mandé pou tout sé powèm mwen-an ki pi cho-a.
Klòch sonm ka kontinyé sonnen chak lè apwézan.
Mwen kouché, épi dé-twa wégrè an lanmen mwen, nan mitan lanmè-a,
Kenbé anlè pa on lanmou ki pa ka kanyen, on gwan twézò mwen chéri nan gwan kalm sa-a ki pa ni bout.
Like Rain
October 2025)
I can’t live in your daydreams
there are still half-read books and half-drunk cups of coffee lingering on my shelves
unedited manuscripts begging for attention under piles of mail I promised I would open
research ideas that haven’t quite been fleshed out enough
I can’t subsist on praise and sacrifice alone
Need the warm sun, a cool breeze, and an ocean view to nourish my aching soul
I can’t live in your daydreams but I can be a featured player in your fantasies
Call on me when the well runs dry
I’ll be there to flood your fields
35
older now
but no guarantees
of growing any wiser
less garrulous, much colder now
with no respite on the horizon
burn my love letters for warmth
those words were soft and hollow
basking nude in the sunlight
gin-soaked sweat flowing from my brow
the vultures feast on me like carrion
licking my bones, until the flesh is gone
yet each bite makes me feel alive
never thought I’d get to 35
Manman
grafyé rasin-an
dwèt ou blé épi an san
twou-a pa ni fen
Blan/Lò
Gadé mwen,
all decked out in white and gold like
I’m the second coming.
dripping venom instead of holy water.
wouldn’t mind the suburbs, if not
for the new age bros and vapid white feminists,
who have the gall to assume they’re part of the solution.
ki sa pwòblenm mwen?
thought you could talk down to me in perpetuity,
‘til I obliterated your ego with my doc marten boot.
we were never really friends, just friendly.
can’t feign austerity for your comfort any longer.
shower me in your hyperbolic platitudes,
wild, brash, dehumanizing for drawing boundaries – I’ll embrace it.
rather that than live sad, frigid, and fraught with fear.
do you love me?
est-ce que tu m’aimes?
tongue dripping with silver,
kisses all over your body like Paris rain in the afternoon.
est-ce que tu m’aimes?
touch like the summer – wet, hot, unrelenting,
and enrapturing you all at once,
until every inch of you is soaked in sweat.
est-ce que je suis le diable?
peut-être, peut-être pas
est-ce que tu m’aimes, encore?
Hayden Winston 
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