Summer 2012

Table of Contents - Vol. VIII, No. 2

Suzanne Dracius

"To Cendra's Ashes" comes from Suzanne Dracius' only collection of poetry, Exquise déréliction métisse, comprising twenty long poems. Nancy Naomi Carlson's working title for her English translation of this book is Calazaza's Delicious Dereliction. "Calazaza," in Creole, refers to a light-skinned, bi-racial woman with red or blond hair and very few black features.

To Cendra’s Ashes

—To Sandra and Alexandre Cadet-Petit

That guy bought a lighter, though he didn’t smoke.
Cendra, he was daydreaming of Cendra, her eternal cigarette pointing
past the tips of her long fingers.
He wanted to buy some gas for his little can, yet he hadn’t run out: the day before he’d filled the tank.
He was filled with Cendra.
Cendra, he was picturing Cendra and her little Corsa.
Deep down, he liked Cendra quite a bit.
The Corsa—he was the one who had paid for it.
Traffic was heavy, providing him a chance for second thoughts...
He wanted the car radio switched off,
Riling him with love songs
Of “Forever” and “Never more,”
He fought with the dashboard.
He no longer heard the music:
“Man plen epi’y!” “I’m fed up with her!” became his only leitmotif.

The first filling station was closed.
He had time to reflect.
He had only Cendra in his head.

He tried two gas stations, in daybreak’s calm.
Then a third: it was open.
He still had plenty of time to meditate, waiting in line.
Cendra invaded his mind.

When a fellow, cigarette brandished, asked for a light, he violently shoved him aside,
ruminated: “No, I don’t smoke.”
The poor fool replied: “You’re right, smoking kills.”
A chance for him to philosophize—this bitako, unrefined, with his cigarette butt,
blocking his car door...
But he didn’t hear,
So concentrated on Cendra.

In the highway’s snarl of cars,
In the course of long and lengthy slowdowns,
He could still have used logic.
He could have turned back...
No, he took a detour
So as not to miss Cendra.

Tailing her up to the boulevard, la Levée,
Only one idea consumed his brain:
Nec tecum nec sine te.
Neither with you nor without you.
Creeping his way up to the space where Cendra had parked her Corsa,
He only had eyes for Cendra.

When he had doused her little car with gasoline—
Cendra still inside—
Cendra switching her ballerina flats to saucy stiletto heels,
Leaning over,
Cendra buckling the little straps of her delicate pumps onto her dainty feet,
Conscientiously,
Cendra, the one elected,
Did he have a furtive erection?
He could have paused: the sole object of his thoughts was Cendra.
Cendra who didn’t want him anymore.

But when he brought out the lighter from deep in his pocket,
Difficultly, slow as can be—
Because it was caught in the cloth,
Having groped for it, hips to chest
Because he no longer recalled in which pocket it sat—
Did his hand tremble then?
When he swore
“Patat sa!” “Dirty whore!”
When the new lighter jammed because he didn’t know how to make it work,
He had endless seconds to reflect.
He could still have renounced his plan.
When he shook the lighter that didn’t want to ignite
Because he wasn’t adept,
He had time to change his mind.
And when he set the fire, did his eyes meet hers even for one fleeting instant?

How long did that guy watch her burn in the driver’s seat?
It was too late to reflect,
But he still could regain his self-control.
In a last-ditch change of heart, did he try to come to her aid,
Reunite in his raging blaze
In a supreme embrace?

Cendra, her name was Cendra.
When he had consumed her in fires of false criminal love, did he look at her face?
The only object of his thoughts was Cendra:
Reduce Cendra to ashes like one is reduced to a slave.

Fòdfwans, 22 Mé 2008 (Fort-de-France, May 22, 2008)

~ Translated from the French by Nancy Naomi Carlson

Translator’s note: On June 12, 2005, Sandra Cadet-Petit, a secretary who worked in the mayor’s office in Fort-de-France in Martinique, was burned alive in her car by her ex-boyfriend. Robert Mariello was only sentenced to 20 years of prison, with the opportunity for parole after 13 years, because the jury did not find him guilty of premeditated murder. Dracius’ poem was inspired by her belief that the crime was premeditated. She changed the name “Sandra” to “Cendra” to evoke the French word “cendres,” meaning “ashes,” as well as to represent all women who are victimized by domestic violence. May 22, the date this poem was completed, is a holiday that commemorates the abolition of slavery in Martinique.

Aux cendres de Cendra

À Sandra et Alexandre Cadet-Petit

Ce bougre-là a acheté un briquet, cependant il ne fumait pas.
Cendra, il songeait à Cendra, son éternelle cigarette pointant au bout de ses longs doigts.

Il a voulu acheter de l’essence avec son petit bidon, pourtant il n’était pas en panne : la veille il avait fait le plein.
Il était plein de Cendra.
Cendra, il pensait à Cendra et à sa petite Corsa.
Au fond, Cendra, il l’aimait bien.
La Corsa, c’était même lui qui la lui avait payée.
La circulation était dense, lui offrant la possibilité de ressasser...
Il voulut éteindre l’autoradio
Qui le bassinait de chansons d’amour,
De « Never more » et de « Toujours »,
Se battit avec les quomodos.
Il n’écouta plus la musique :
« Man plen épi’y ! » devint son seul leitmotiv.

La première station était fermée.
Il a eu le temps de réfléchir.
Il n’avait en tête que Cendra.

Il a fait deux stations-service, dans le serein du jour levant,
En a essayé une troisième : c’était ouvert.
Pendant qu’il faisait la queue, il avait encore le loisir de méditer.
Cendra occupait ses pensées.

Quand un gars, cigarette brandie, lui a demandé du feu, il l’a repoussé violemment, a ruminé : « Non, je ne fume pas ».
Le pauvre type lui a répondu : « Tu as raison, fumer tue ».
Cela lui donnait l’occasion de philosopher, ce bitako avec son mégot agrippé à sa portière...
Mais il ne l’écouta pas :
Il se concentrait sur Cendra.

Dans la marmelade de voitures, sur l’autoroute,
Au long des longs ralentissements,
Il lui était encore possible de se raisonner.
Il aurait pu rebrousser chemin...
Non, il prit des chemins chiens
Pour ne pas rater Cendra.

En la filant jusqu’à la Levée,
Il n’avait à l’esprit qu’une idée :
Nec tecum nec sine te.
Ni avec toi ni sans toi.
En se faufilant jusqu’à l’endroit où Cendra a garé sa Corsa,
Il n’avait d’yeux que pour Cendra.

Quand il a arrosé d’essence la petite voiture,
— Cendra encore à l’intérieur —
Cendra troquant ses ballerines pour des talons aiguille coquins,
Penchée,
Cendra attachant les petites brides de ses mignons escarpins sur ses pieds fins,
Consciencieusement,
Cendra, l’être d’élection,
Eut-il une furtive érection ?
Alors il eût pu hésiter : l’unique objet de ses pensées, c’était Cendra.
Cendra qui ne voulait plus de lui.

Mais quand il a sorti le briquet du fond de sa poche,
Difficultueusement, lentement,
Parce qu’il se prenait dans le tissu,
S’étant palpé tout le corps
Parce qu’il ne se souvenait plus dans quelle poche il l’avait foutu,
— Sa main trembla-t-elle, alors ? —
Quand il jura
« Patat’sa ! »
Quand le briquet neuf s’est enrayé parce qu’il ne savait pas s’en servir,
Il eut d’interminables secondes pour réfléchir.
Il pouvait encore renoncer.
Pendant qu’il secouait le briquet qui ne voulait pas s’allumer
Parce qu’il n’avait pas l’habitude,
Il a eu le temps de changer d’avis.
Et quand il y a mis le feu, a-t-il croisé son regard ne serait-ce qu’un fugace instant ?

Combien de temps ce bougre-là l’a-t-il regardée brûler dans l’habitacle ?
Il était trop tard pour réfléchir,
Mais il pouvait se ressaisir.
En un ultime revirement a-t-il tenté de la secourir,
De la rejoindre dans son embrasement
En un suprême embrassement ?

Cendra, elle s’appelait Cendra.
Lorsqu’il l’a consumée des feux de son faux amour criminel, a-t-il regardé son visage ?
L’unique objet de ses pensées, c’était Cendra :
Réduire en cendres Cendra comme on réduit en esclavage.

Fòdfwans, 22 Mé 2008 (Fort-de-France, May 22, 2008)

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