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| Jamaica shore is languid. Movement in heat breeds small goats, children, the multiple lusting generation of wild breadfruit, sea grape, aloevera, coconut, bougainvillea, hibiscus, green chameleon, striped tanagers, humming birds, plum, pecan trees--: moisture. I am at home here. The margin scuttles with crabs and is shored with coral; when the surf is up and white-tipped tetons of water swell, their intersection sounds as the artillery on the third day at Gettysburg heard from Frederick, continuous, insistent, soft. Storm surges of warm saltwater batter the swimmer against kniferock and he feels at home here as well. But out in the water the Atlantic edge vanishes in the distance where a north wind can blow you over 20,000 fathoms deep and kill you, since you'll never make it back to shore against that wind. I put my mask into the water, see the bottom dappled with stone and sunlight against occasional sand over which small blue fish swim. the breath scrapes harsh against the tube and salt sea climbs into my nose; and the bottom recedes into an amniotic black where barracuda smile and snarl, guarding the silence of great deep rock, the thunderous enlightenment of darkness. This too is my home, but I am afraid. I am afraid of this final home. |
Steven Fortney
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Page updated by TiPi, 10/27/2000