To leave his gang of Aztecs, / He has to get jumped out, / Walk down lines of street soldiers: / Punches, fists, departing gifts / For this Latin King.

They call it the shoreline, / el abismo que tiene poder / too wide to hear plain truth / so replace your split frame / con un coquí cuya voz grita / 

El Yunque was itself an exercise in the small death / of tongues, as I returned to the birthplace of mi Abuela / I was still no better at tuning my ear to the Spanish I left / at her feet, yet I saw sacrifice in the tree stump made altar, / 

I grew up surrounded by fields and the valley landscape can be almost oppressive in its unending flatness, but there are times - whether because of the weather, the clouds, the light - where I'm overwhelmed by its immense beauty, by its ability to catch me off guard even though I've lived there my entire life.