Water Rushes Like Memory
Notes of evening
play upon sand,
scatter dried stars
from treetops.
There are poems
in me, unwritten.
My senses hush,
words sink like stones.
Overhead, seabirds,
taut with sound, scream
because they need to.
Wind whistles through wet rock,
the sun shifts on a far shore.
I write this poem
because I need to.
Waves crash in my bones,
tides ebb and flow
in my throat.
A cry, dissolved,
is washed away.
Water rushes like memory,
finds its echo in my body.
I learn to speak all over again.
On this edge of land
I lean into the light,
cast my voice
like a net
into the sea.
Danielle Boodoo-Fortuné lives in Sangre Grande, Trinidad. Danielle has been previously published in Bim: Arts for the Twenty-First Century, the Caribbean Writer, Tongues of the Ocean, St. Somewhere Journal, Canopic Jar Poetry Journal, and Anthurium. She is currently pursuing a postgraduate degree in literatures in English at the University of the West Indies, St. Augustine, Trinidad and Tobago.