ATLANTIC COASTS
These boys could be in Praia,
I think. Dried sea salt coarse
across their shoulders. They dig
their feet into the sand, chase
glimmers of polished glass
and trail tracks along the shore
leaving smudges like their grandfathers
left on Cabo Verde at this age.
Across the ocean and decades
before, two boys called each other
in Crioulo. I picture the brown
mountains watching from behind,
and the sea washing up smooth
rocks and jelly fish for them.
But they’re not in Praia, they’re here,
we’re all here, in New Bedford where
they dig at the beach with sticks
and face the Atlantic from
the other side. “What are you taking
pictures of?” The boys ask me.
“The beach,” I say, and they scatter
sand behind them to collect
their stash. “Take a picture of this,”
the younger one suggests, holding
a twisted clump of seaweed
and goo. The older boy is serious.
He carries stones with important
colors for me to photograph.
Our tie to each other
and to the past is the water.
They do not discover
and uncover bits from shore,
their home, to remember lost
family in Cabo Verde. This
is where they are. This is where
we are. “Take a picture of this,”
the younger one offers, grinning
at the snail peering from its shell.
copyright 2004 Jarita Davis