I’m from basement record stores, from body piercings hidden / from the naked eye, from road trips with no destination / and forgotten merengues my aunts would dance to on New Year’s Eve. 

This island is a bridge / between the Orishas / and the astronauts.

My mother walks into my room, / her blue cotton nightgown licking / her tamale-feet

Take back your stories, carts of stones, / tears and glances. Take back the tokens, / yellow papers in languages that do not fade / with age.