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Clarke (The Polished Hoe, 2004, etc.) presents a rant/lament about the West Indian immigrant experience that teeters between dazzling and numbing.

Idora Morrison is on the verge of drowning in the maelstrom of Toronto. The “more” that Idora wants hardly seems like much: a brighter future, mainly. Adrift from the Barbados culture that nourished her, she fearfully prays for her teenaged son BJ to “stop dressing like a rapper [and] walking like a penguin.” But ever since an Italian boy in their neighborhood accused him of stealing and he was hauled off to the slammer while still a kid, BJ has been trouble. As adolescence descends, posters of Marcus Garvey and Malcolm X appear on his bedroom wall. Assistant Manager of Daytime and Supper Meals at Trinity College, Idora nickel-and-dimes it just above the poverty line, fantasizes about being Naomi Campbell and serves as Assistant Deaconness at the Apostolical Holiness Church of Spiritualism in Christ. Especially at night, she fumes about her husband, “lost or buried somewhere in America, in Brooklyn” seeking employment. To make ends meet, Idora encourages her son to shoplift but then freaks when he embraces the thug life. As the novel commences, BJ is MIA, disappeared into the underworld of violence, larceny and drugs. Four days and many pages later, he’s dead—no suspense here—and buried in his Reeboks as Idora mourns. That half-week of agonized anticipation is, basically, the book, a stream-of-consciousness tour of Idora’s yearning memory for the islands, her ferocious musings about racism and want, her universal, maternal fears.

At times psychedelically kaleidoscopic, at others merely confusing: Experimental plot-sabotage and disregard for narrative chronology significantly undermine the momentum.