“Canada’s Moral Optimism and the Limits of Humane Global Leadership: Reflections on Mark Carney”

“Canada’s Moral Optimism and the Limits of Humane Global Leadership: Reflections on Mark Carney”

Prime Minister Mark Carney’s unapologetic speech at Davos in Norway revealed a leader fluent in transnational and global discourse, attentive to the anxieties and asymmetries shaping life in both the Global South and the Global North. He rightly diagnosed the global order as fractured, most notably the U.S.-led model, which he portrayed as not merely strained but structurally broken and perhaps beyond meaningful repair.

Yet Carney’s optimism rests on a familiar paradox. While he called for a more humane and empathetic global order and underscored Canada’s moral responsibility to help craft it alongside the League of Nations, his framework ultimately reinscribes Western authority as the primary steward of global governance. His rhetoric gestures toward anti-imperial critique, but only in its softer form—one that critiques excesses while leaving intact the West’s presumed right to rule.

The speech thus reflects the enduring tension within liberal internationalism: a desire to reform global power without fundamentally redistributing it. Canadians may take pride in Carney’s eloquence and ethical posture, but they should also interrogate the limits of a vision that seeks to humanize empire rather than move beyond it.

If I were Canadian, I would share in that pride, particularly because of Carney’s emphasis on moral leadership, ethical diplomacy, and constructive foreign policies aimed at advancing the common good and human flourishing across the world. Yet I remain deeply grateful to my Haitian ancestors, who recognized far earlier the dangers of imperialism and Western global hegemony in the nineteenth century. Their insight remains instructive today. The Haitian Revolution and the enduring meaning of 1804 still offers lessons the world has yet to fully learn.

In continuity with W. E. B. Du Bois’s seminal claim at the turn of the twentieth century that race would constitute the central problem of modernity, the most consequential impediment to global human flourishing in the present moment is the rearticulation of imperial power. This contemporary imperial formation operates through an intensified nationalism and is institutionalized by the strategic surveillance, regulation, and disciplining of nations in the Global South. Any vision of humane global leadership and moral progress that fails to reckon with the significance and global meaning of the Haitian Revolution remains, at best, incomplete.

“The Eye That Sees You”

“The Eye That Sees You”

He brought you ten thousand roses to rekindle love in your pain,
But they were not your favorite colors, nor your cherished scent.
I bring you an everlasting rose:
The shape, style, and the color of your heart.

The eye with which you see him
is not the eye with which he sees you.
I gaze at you with tender affection,
deep devotion
until you peer deep into my soul.

You crave attention, presence,
He offers none.
I come to make you whole.

He paints a newness,
cloaked in deception,
a fragile illusion
That cannot withstand the trials of a thorned heart.
What you need is to be “chosen forever,”
beyond mere recognition.

I offer adventures unforgettable,
Handwritten love notes that linger,
A bouquet of wildflowers arranged to your taste—
For you are my all
Wanted above all else in this world.

“Rupture: I Am the One Who Mourns”

“Rupture: I Am the One Who Mourns”

I lose sleep thinking of you,
searching for words strong enough to endure,
writing verses meant to awaken your soul
beautiful enough to bring you back.

I studied the art of love and loving,
searched for the most luminous poems ever written,
hoping to perfect my craft,
hoping, still, to win you back.

All this
for a single smile from you,
even if it must travel through the wind.
All this
so you might think of me again,
so you might see me again.

I borrowed words from other poets
so memory would return your gaze to me.
I wore their lines as my own,
as if my imagination had deserted me
as if love itself had driven me wild.

On Monday, I sent you my first borrowed
breath:
I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment,”
so you might dream of us.
I am still in love with you.

The next day, I leaned on Frost
and whispered:
Love at the lips was touch as sweet as I could bear,”
so you would know,
quietly, seriously
that I am still in love with you.

I know our love moves slowly,
but when it rests, it rests for a long time.
Our silence became poetry,
because our hearts once spoke
to one another in secret.

Yet your disregard for my heartache,
the pain you caused,
taught me the frailty of your love—
that your passion for me
was never strong enough

to rekindle desire.

Your ignorance of my devotion,
of my silent prayers to the Divine,
of my daily tears and whispered laments,
led me to understand
that you never learned
how to love me
with care, with reverence, with respect.

And finally, your silence
made one truth unmistakable:
I am the only one mourning
the departure of a love
that was once beautiful,
once eternal,
the rupture of a bond
I believed was unbreakable.
I am the only one mourning.

“On Being Human in a Country That Demands Proof”

“On Being Human in a Country That Demands Proof”

Starting today, as a naturalized U.S. citizen, I will carry my passport with me for these simple reasons:

  1. I was not born in the United States.
  2. I speak English with an accent.
  3. I am Haitian.
  4. I am Black.
  5. I am a Black male.
    Summary: I am a Black Haitian immigrant with an accent.

I understand all too well how this country reads bodies before it reads documents. Experience has taught me that these facts are often interpreted not as natural or intrinsic markers of identity, but as grounds for suspicion. I am not undocumented, and yet this combination still demands proof—as though my humanity itself requires validation, legible only through a U.S. stamp.

“Where My Love Fell Short”

“Where My Love Fell Short”

I am not writing this poem
to declare my love,
but to confess where it fell short.

There were moments
when my heart stood at a distance
instead of meeting yours.

This is my apology:
for overlooking your feelings,
for dimming your passion,
for loving you
with less care than you deserved.

This is not a poem of triumph,
but a quiet song of humility,
for the sorrow I carried into your life
and the ache and unrest
I placed in your hands.

I am not writing to win you back.
Only to speak honestly.
This is a song of affirmation
and forgiveness,
a testament to who I have become.

Your love changed me.
Your commitment led me inward,
taught me how to see,
how to stay.

Though I cannot undo the hurt,
I promise I will never be careless
with your heart again.

Today, I am the man
who names his failures,
who carries what he broke,
and offers this truth softly.

I am sorry.

“Shadows and Names”

“Shadows and Names”

When it’s not Jews, it’s Arabs.
If it’s not Muslims, it’s Mexicans.
When it’s not Mexicans, it’s Haitians.
If it’s not Haitians, it’s Somalis.
After Somalis, it will be a new shadow,
a new name,
a new narrative,
but the same fear.

Someone is always the other.
The “uncivilized” is always to blame.
Fear changes faces:
geography, location, cultural identity,
but never leaves the room.

When we see ourselves in them,
when empathy comes first,
until love triumphs over the face of evil,
when repentance breaks us,
until reconciliation rises over division,
until we recognize our humanity in others,
until we see the face of God in their experience and pain,
the next scapegoat waits.
The cycle of violence and dehumanization never ends.

“Before I Ever Met You”

“Before I Ever Met You”

I searched for you
in places I never expected love to live.
I dreamed of you
before I ever knew your face,
or delighted in your smile.

I kissed your lips a thousand times
before I knew their shape,
loved you
before our lives ever crossed.

Even now, I do not know
whether I will meet you in the world of flesh,
for my love has lived wrapped in a dream:
a dream that could become real
only if you chose to be visible,
only if your presence drew near.

I have heard you are going away,
to a distant land—
whether by choice or by fate,
I do not know,
but I still care.

My mind unraveled when news reached me that you would go.
Though I never touched your face,
never held you,
never learned the scent of your body,
I lost all sense of direction
when I read the words of your leaving,
as if half my heart were displaced,
cut clean into two inseparable pieces.
I cried into the night
and counted too many sleepless hours.

Still, I will search for you:
in dreams,
and, if I must, in the waking world,
until I find you,
where two hearts may merge as one.

And when I do,
I will not turn away again,
for then we will affirm
what has always been true:
that I am yours,
and you are with me.

“How I Loved You” or “As I Let You Go”

“How I Loved You” or “As I Let You Go”

My love for you was never perfect,
but it was deep and sincere.
I knew I was not meant to fall in love with you, yet I did.
I could have chosen others to share my love with,
but I chose you because I wanted you
to feel loved,
to know care,
and to carry some trace of my life within yours.

I loved you gently,
and I loved you passionately.
I loved all of you, even what was imperfect. Though I knew we were different,
but I still chose you.
You were my choice, again and again.

Now, as I let you go, I hope you remember what we shared.
I made you my priority,
often even above myself,
my desires,
and my ambitions.
What I gave you, I gave freely,
and I will do it again and again.

I hope you find the happiness,
and the life I could not give you.
If life ever casts you aside
or tries to wrap you in shame,
I hope you find someone who will love you even more than I did,
think of you more than I could,
carry your heart more carefully than I ever managed.
I hope you he will treat you with greater gentleness and kindness than I was able to give.

I am writing this last poem to tell you how I have loved you,
to give shape to my devotion,
to name what I was willing to give:
the truth of my love, sincere and real.

I am writing this last poem to remind you how I chose you,
and where I stop,
not the end of loving you,
but the moment I choose to release you,
without saying goodbye.

I let you go, painfully, into a kinder life,
so you may know a more beautiful love
that comes after me.

May someone carry you gently.

“A Love Without Witness”

“A Love Without Witness”

I love you in secret,
slowly,
so we may survive
the complexity of our story:
learning how to move through
a love never meant for daylight,
a love that must not speak its name in public.

I love you with caution,
as if loving you were a crime,
a hidden sin,
as if this tenderness, once exposed,
could undo our very existence.
It is a love shaped by anxiety,
formed in the quiet spaces that made us.

I love you in silence,
to protect the depth of what we share.
I love you where my heart speaks
in a language only you understand,
where only your soul
can hear its trembling sound.

Perhaps our love is real only there:
in disguise,
in distance,
in secrecy—
far from the pain it costs us,
where our souls can finally rest
in the simple thought of us.
Where the heart is allowed to feel,
but not act,
not reveal.
This is the mercy of loving you.

I love you from a distance,
because distance is preservation.
It aches us both,
yet it is how I keep you safe:
this sunlight we were never meant to touch.

You were my sunlight on bare skin.
I was the warmth that made you glow.
It is a love without witness,
distance transformed
into mutual devotion.