Sailing to Culebra
I have sailed the seas, and come to the holy city of Culebra
soft rain tapping our cheeks,
my father swigged Bacardi
gold Reserve for the belly,
his gnarled hand was on the helm
and the other holding his liquor,
with every rotating wave and thrust
we moved and watched,
Puerto Rico getting smaller
My father swiftly gripped the lines and swung the sail enough to still the wind
and dropped the anchor down and down
into clear, and gentle water
papayas, plantains, and yampees
were hanging and waiting
for what I couldn't say
but knew it was meant to be
with beach grains as thin as flower
and wind as warm and soft as cotton
This is how I saw him: bathing in sun light, brown as an almond
we moved gently around him
into the island's center, where
we stayed in doorless blue huts,
cut and gutted fish and fruit.
thin as a curtain, I bent with each
breeze, teetering between palm trees
sun taming the glow of my pale skin
sixteen, hungry, and trembling
At midnight I moved to the sounds of Spanish guitars and shakers
where bathing suits, bare feet and barbeques
met and melted beneath the moon
illuminating every rugged and ruddy face
tearing meat from the bone with my teeth
gripping warm sand with my toes
unraveling the band from my hair
pressing further in with my heels
feeling the heat of the night for the first time
Elizabeth Dosta
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