Good Marrow

[Verse 1]
Grand-mère's cleaver, heavy from Port-au-Prince,
Sits by the giraumon from the market on Spence.
Last night of the year, the stove throws a humid heat,
And I'm trying to remember the rhythm of her feet.

[Chorus]
They don't write this recipe down, no
It's in the good marrow, this freedom sound.
Simmer slow 'til the roots give out their soul
On this borrowed soil, to make a man whole.

[Verse 2]
The sharp green smell of culantro on my thumb
Feels more like a prayer than any place I'm from.
She always said, "Piti, let the epis breathe,"
Like the memory itself was a garden you could leave.

[Chorus]
They don't write this recipe down, no
It's in the good marrow, this freedom sound.
Simmer slow 'til the roots give out their soul
On this borrowed soil, to make a man whole.

[Bridge]
And one day my hands will be the ones that are scarred,
Showing some child how to break the winter's hard.
Just another branch grafted onto the vine,
Trying to get the salt and the patience right in time.

[Outro]
Yeah, the good marrow...
Simmering slow now...