A Mixtape for Tortola

On a green island,
The cassette frames two cyclones –
Time spinning away;

The black cassette spins,
And the room swells with static –
The storm’s ruthless roar;

Bodyless voices,
The gutted, gaping houses –
The still bleeding wounds;

A helicopter,
Its blades frozen in saltire –
A suspended god;

We are listening,
The cyclones spin, but we hear
Nothing but silence.