My Island

Back home my family wakes up to the smell
of coffeebeans and the jolt of birdsongs.
I know they're safe because God is within arm's reach
like the coconuts and oranges.
To those who ask, I can say I've been before, whether rich or poor,
puerto rican, early morning seeking folks, feel the open
seas in flow the trees and coated leaves that breeze in homes
because my island only has two seasons: hot and steamy.

My island's ancestors can be heard in the tropical midnight croaks,
their marrow fills the webbings of amphibian feet.
My island shimmers like rich portals
with strips of mango spilling from the shockwaves in its iris.
My island's dancers have curves that sweep the coastal currents,
they move with tree trunk legs
that shapeshift into rainforests when they dance slow enough to be seen.
My island's women have lips that kiss softer than citrus fruit,
food that nourishes souls and supply the moisture in our hair,
because the best bananas in the world are not yellow.
My island's people go to plazas and pray,
letting the blessings fall from their open palms like loose change.

Our waters steady the burn of our pulse with its rumbling Atlantic blue.
Drop the white star of Bethelehem in the middle and call it our national flag.

I sing of the contours of paradise that pride themselves on
the haloes that light our earth-toned shoulders,
like angels posting treetop vigils with their machetes at their sides
next to hefty bottles of sunscreen.

We hear the songs of celebration a thousand miles away
in the streets of Manhattan, with tumbling voices that all shout the same anthem
"Our population may be small but our genes always dominate."

My island's kings resurrect every year to testify
the camelback gospels in the crowded villages.
My island's natives live in the clamor of our bones,
they rise from our bloodstreams and beat the earth with their fists
just to show the world how loud and alive they still are.

When our ears savor the cracks of rocketing baseballs
from stadiums residing at every other street corner
our mouths roar like the lions painted on our walls
it is the sound of an army of mountains
holding a grudge match against the tsunamis,
it is the sound of generations being born
when we hear it we parade the streets and shake the bleechers with our feet.

Come feel the sun breaking from his coyness
to gently hold you by your chin
on this sanctuary of reinita bird feathers and relampago waters,
this solar meridian oasis of the ages.

I come from a harvest of blooming faces
and rooftops that color the hills with their sugar milk walls
my family, we envelope with love for this world and all its people
like the last days of the elderly
and it is so strong, that the waves fight amongst themselves
for a chance to grasp the hibiscus-colored gems of our sandy throne.