On Father’s Day, we eat crabs for dinner, / and I think about being four-years-old / dreading trips to the seafood market. / I’d hold my dad’s hand, let him protect me / from the eels popping their heads out the tank,

I ask them if they remember / when we slept up on the roof / in the summertime when / I fell in the latrine when / we stole ripe tomatoes / and ate them with salt / they say yes yes yes

broth the color of thin blood   the red-brown / of a shot eye   its insomniac boil   fat with bone / 
yuca & tripa