by Amílcar Peter Sanatan
Lungs capsize instead of boats
we trained to whistle across the Atlantic.
Now the water has dried
the ocean is an open street in Port-de-Paix
without debts to the dark country
of tectonic plates, we cross
like ants on leaves in the little solitude
of seasons. All we carry are few bananas,
donkeys for the elderly, a language
on our tongues as life jackets:
this time, not knowing how to swim
does not mean we die.
Amílcar Peter Sanatan is a Ph.D. candidate in Cultural Studies at The University of the West Indies, St. Augustine Campus. His poetry has appeared in the Caribbean Review of Gender Studies, The Caribbean Writer, Cordite Poetry Review, Gutter, Interviewing the Caribbean, Moko Magazine, PREE Lit and Sargasso. Sanatan is an alumnus of The Cropper Foundation’s 10th Caribbean Creative Writers’ Residential Workshop. For over a decade, he has performed spoken word poetry and coordinated open mics in Trinidad and Tobago.