TRESHA LIONEL
What is a wave but a giving that rehearses its taking away.
Beckon and retreat
to repeat
until we call it nature
The sea gave us back our boy
teeth protruding from skin,
a roar lodged in the throat’s ridges
locs bleached and broken
against the boat’s pink insides
Offered back to us
a sacrifice we have learnt to accept
— One fisherman every now and then.
But this boat returns to us charred
delivered hastily by watery hands
to the waiting arms of Dennery fishermen
who cradle sorrow and injustice
Terrorism looks like a small, empty, burnt boat
tied to a coconut tree, unmoving
Tied to a community taught not to move
against the stronger and more violent winds,
the waves, bigger all around us
take widening handfuls of our shore and souls
taking more of us than it gives back.
Beckoning, Retreating,
Beckoning, Retreating
while we knit more nets
teeth protruding from skin, smiling,
roar lodged in our throats, we wait our tur—