My mother circles
want ads in the kitchen. Smiles.
Like that, she breaks me.
San Juan, Huracao. Stop it, please!
Ishmael is dying. Let him sleep.
Here, more like lovers than family,
we halt more than talk
and your sisters ache for
Drowning is a soft, private thing. I feel it
most in this place without water.
When very dusk, Nelson sits by
the deck waiting for his mother
to blow into shore.
(Everywhere I go, I carry me with me...)
Chavo scratches his neck
with a plastic fork
We search for clams,
flashlights in green water.
Next time, they tell me use Tower Air,
and remember to take two blankets each
from the plane.
What I remember most are the light
of candles in brown paper bags,
the light in your eyes when
exposed to water
This coral, you say. Itís the exact shape
of a woman bending over backwards.
I am so glad you see.