As many times as I’ve been there,
the roads remain strange, going east
when I think we’re headed south,
passing fields of the same farmers
who lift and shake their head.
I’m sure I was born here, though
when I hold out my hand the fish
swim away, the men toast someone
behind a partition, and only one
aunt claims she still loves me.
The spaces behind houses carry
the light in spare pockets, and
a quiet holds the hills like rakes
at lunchtime. I dare not ask which
trace leads to the sea, innocent
wave washing the same sand: Man-
zanilla, Mayaro, Gasparee. Only fifty
square miles, but it can go on forever,
machetes looking for something
to cut, besides cane.