Jerrice J. Baptiste is a poet born in Haiti, the author of eight books. Her poetry has been published and forthcoming in Impspired, Urthona: Buddhism & Art, Pensive: A Global Journal of Spirituality & The Arts, Artemis Journal, The Yale Review, Mantis, Poetica Review, The Banyan Review, Kosmos Journal, The Caribbean Writer, West Trestle Review and several others. Jerrice was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for 2024 by Jerry Jazz Musician. and as Best of the Net for 2022 by Blue Stem. She was the recipient of the Juno Cottage Residency for the Women’s Leadership Program at The Omega Institute in Rhinebeck NY in 2019.  She has taught her Poetry workshops all over the Hudson Valley at The Beatrix Farrand Garden in Hyde Park, The Oncology Support Program at Benedictine Hospital and is a returning poet facilitating at the Omega Institute. She has been Poet-in-Residence at the Prattsville Art Center, NY.  Her poetry and collaborative song-writing are on the Grammy award nominated album- Many Hands: Family Music for Haiti.

Messenger

An owl takes off after feasting
on flesh, blood on carcass opened

to prey, bones of rib cage crushed,
wings waft in wind. Were you
crow, gull, eagle eating morsels

of bread tossed by caring hands?
Were you intrigued by honeyed

yellow petals; daffodils, forsythia
the honey comb in your beak; lost
yourself in prayer, in miracle of day?

Were you calling for golden sunflowers
to bloom in March, longing for Summer?

Were you carrying pieces of wilderness
to your young? Your nest of twigs 
damaged by rainstorm. Given a second 

chance to return, would you tell us about
the afterlife? Would you have abandoned sky?

Across The River

I haven't crossed the Hudson River 
in many seasons. Lush white snow 
blocking my red door, a perfect excuse.

Lips frozen mulberry blue, khaki fingers
shivering, lost their strawberry hue.

My family awaits me.
Heavy heart—
like a silver hook tugging
with each beat.

Hours shift on a colossal 
bus, finally through the tunnel,
then, I stumble onto the A train like
a one-year-old. Canvas navy blue bag 
strapped on my shoulders.

My siblings soak black 
mushrooms overnight.
Their black water will simmer 
lima beans and white rice.

We will sit together,
eat the silky rice.
Taste our island, 
sun shriveled mushrooms.
Take our annual photograph.

My restless legs will disappear again
into the belly of the mountain.
Walk on last crunch of leaves of the red 

season, into the cold burrowing 
in my bones. I will crave black rice 
on indigo nights.

Their call like our country's yellow song
from the Hispaniolan Trogron bird’s beak
will reach me.