A little girl twirls in the airport
In the line for New York. She looks
Like five and already co*ks out her chest
She is adorned with womanish things
Pink plastic bangles and ruffled socks
She opens and closes her denim jacket
Like wings, as she whirls. She will come
Back with more pink things (with which
To twirl). Her lips are pursed big-woman
Style (she has the kind of top lip with nerve
Enough to curve over the bottom one). She is
The colour of coconut candy. Her face
Slopes slightly. Her cheeks are full
Her eyes wear the seriousness
Of sun. She answers to her name
And also to Precious. Her name
Might be Precious. She does not fear
Her smallness. She likes her Bajan
Ways. The spinning is all that counts
She is already not soft and her forehead
Is broad and African. If twirling and
Smiling went together, she would give
One wide with dimples and her tongue
Between her teeth. Singing goes with
Twirling and this requires fierceness
She knows how to hold on to the beauty
Of a thing. She acts this way. You'd want
To say “she is a wailing dervish”
Or “she is a rainstorm colleting”
You'd want to say “her hair is sectioned
Like the parishes” or “look at Oya's
Grandchild.” But she is just twirling
Which her singing tells and tells. It is just that
Her plaits are countless today, full
Of bluebird barrettes. All else are staring
Sensible and still. The girl gives a whirl