I have lies. Lies about Jamaica. A jam jar

of nonsense and white-hot beach sand

left up in your cupboard. I have mad skillz. I have a sand dollar

I’ll tell you I found in Jamaica.

Those are just the beaches for radial symmetry, I tell you.

I found you in Jamaica, out on white-hot sands,

dancing down to the sea. I tell you that Jamaica

looks like the mother of manatees.

Anyone with an atlas and a pair of eyes

could tell you that.

Ginger biscuit, ginger wine,

a peel of ginger in your tea. The frigate birds at evening

skim low over Montego, racing their shadows over the water,

scarlet pouches bellowed from their throats.

Do frigate birds ever fly over Montego Bay? I will tell you all you need to know.

*This poem is brought to you by several random Wikipedia searches.