I listened to my old life played out in analog. / Performers juxtaposed against the blue. / Pitch fork, clover, the swallows. / Is it too much to occupy one’s own architecture, a density of voids? / Stretched canvas, sharp tools oscillating. / Men putting up gutters, brush hogging the yard.

I’m writing you in yoga clothes made in the country / my parents left behind, an archipelago of over seven / thousand islands. See the whites lounging in caftans / on catamarans, smiling and waving? They act kindly / when they hear my Oxford accent, if I’m wearing hair / product and Philippine pearls harvested from oysters / they slurp noisily.

& even though fluency never fully blessed my mouth / my body still grieves for Chente / the memory of my young self translating his / heartbreak lyrics with the little Spanish that stayed / on the tongue as if to say we love you / despite your broken record mouth