Pepper Sauce


I pray for that grandmother, grinding her teeth,
one hand pushing in fresh hot peppers, seeds and all, turning
the handle of that old iron mill, squeezing the limes, knowing
          they will burn and cut raw like acid.
She pours in vinegar and gets Anne to chop five onions
          with a whole bulb of garlic,
          Chop them up real fine girl, you hear?
And Anne dicing, and crying, relieved that no belt has blistered her
skin,
          no knife handle smashed down onto her knuckles
until they bleed for stealing money from she grandmother purse.

I hear she made Anne pour in the oil and vinegar
          and stir up that hot sauce, how she hold her down.
I hear she tied that girl to the bedposts,
          strung her out naked, like she there lying on a crucifix.
I hear she spread she out, then say,
          I go teach you to go and steal from me, Miss Lady.
I hear she scoop that pepper sauce out of a white enamel bowl,
          and pack it deep into she granddaughter’s pussy,
I hear there was one piece of screaming in the house that day.
          Anne bawl till she turn hoarse,
               bawl till the hair on the neighbours skin raise up,
               bawl till she start hiss through her teeth,
               bawl till she mouth could make no more sound, 
          I hear how she turn raw,
          how that grandmother leave her there all day,
         
          I hear how she couldn’t walk or talk for weeks.