Cocal

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Behold the shout of “SEA!” where ends the land down Manzanilla way on windward shore - on coconut road, on ribbons of sand and follow a trail of palms to its door. Upon wet beachcomber footprint I stood, coco lillies and beach flowers I’ve smelled, and miles of castaway island driftwood oft my mother’s full and cradled arms held. In seine nets from Cocal to Mayaro villagers reel carite, kingfish, and shark, and dig for chip-chip and watch fireflies glow as bright the pitch-oil lamps burn after dark. Like the leatherbacks, I too will return before this mortal lamp does cease to burn. Written: January 1995

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