Moths
There
are those nights when I am quite sure that
I
have swallowed something warm and living.
there
are thousands of thin, dry wings beating in me
Like
an army of big, exhausted brown moths
Not
butterflies, mind you, but moths
Deep
dusky moths with eyes on their wings
shimmering
with the exhausting closeness of death
thrashing
uselessly against my insides.
And
on these nights, it is exceptionally hot outside
My
skin is damp with the heat of all these flapping wings.
It
is on these nights I most fear that
I
will burst into pure blue fire if you touch me.
Hints
of flight rush from my parted lips when I speak
And
my whole being aches and trembles to rise into the air.
My
Mother and The Frogs
Not
long after that one, crippling death
My
mother began to see frogs
appearing
mysteriously
all
over the backyard.
Slim,
elegant green frogs
With
broad, all- knowing faces
And
secretive, intelligent smiles.
Their
yellow-gold eyes
Seemed
to follow her, she said
And
they would hold themselves upright
Just
to get a look at her, leaning
elegantly
on slender green limbs
exposing
their delicate white bellies
to
the cold touch of the moonlight.
They
congregated at the washsink, she said
It
seemed as if they were waiting for her
Doubling
and tripling in number each night
Until
our beds were covered with frogs
And
our mouths were filled
With
the short, sour taste
Of
the word ‘frog.’
And
with each slim green frog
That
appeared in the yard at night
My
mother began to hope
To
believe, to dare to think
that
they have come just for her
just
to share the secrets
of
how to walk in the dark.
The Dead Lizard
There
is the outline of a lizard on our window
dried
out, bleached, petrified mid- scamper.
It
has been there for weeks, untouched, preserved,
mostly
because I cannot bear to move it;
to
feel its flat, hollowness on the pads of my thumb
to
hear its dry death crackle against my fingernails,
I
cannot look at its dusty, crumbling little eyes
nor
at its once busy, now wasted little feet.
I
must have slammed the window shut in blind haste
and
in an instant, flattened its little body against the frame.
It
must have been one of those wild night time rains,
and
he must have been just darting back indoors
after
a cool, pleasant evening out.
Tonight
he is clinging to my mind,
just
as he clings to the window frame,
flattened
out and brittle,
and
I sit here,
marveling
at the little thought we give
to
the countless windows
we
slam shut.
The Little Things
Father
forgive us
For
all the little things
We
have crushed beneath our heels.
Forgive
us
for
the countless helpless things
we’ve
stepped on, spat on and squished
without
a second thought.
Forgive
us
For
our selective memory
blemished
souls that we are.
Forgive
us for crushing
The
smallest of things
The
most fearful and helpless of things
The
most blameless of things
When
all this time we’ve been
Breaking
bread and laughing
with
the dangerous ones. |
|
Danielle Boodoo-Fortune' is twenty
two years old, and lives in Sangre Grande, Trinidad. She is currently
pursuing a Bachelor of Arts Degree in Literatures in English.
Danielle has been reading and writing poetry for as long as she
can remember. Previous publications include the May 2008
Bim: Arts for the 21st Century, Women's Writers Edition,
and a recent anthology, Heart to Verse: Wordlines from UWI,
edited by Jennifer Rahim.