The Bermudas that called me into being / wendy fulton steginsky

Salt-laden mangroves that bristle at low tide

crimson stain from Surinam cherries
Mary and I pilfered from Colonel Stevens’ tree

fried bananas with cod fish cakes on Sunday morning

match-me-if-you-can leaves that nurse the sun in their veins

lip-puckering paw paw juice

sea-urchin husks bleached white in mid-August
and strewn on our dock at the mouth of Mullet Bay

holding-our-breath-underwater games
that Linda Roberts next door usually won

twig and nook of the Indian laurel outside Salt Spray’s kitchen

hallway from my bedroom to the end door
where my mind’s thirst and sea’s freedom first met

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