. . . brillando contra el sol y contra los poetas . . .
There it is, the long prow
of the Caribbean, charging to break
the map’s complexion.
It is a key, a crocodile, a hook,
an uncoiling question,
a stretch of sinews catching
dribbles from the continent
under which it will, forever, float.
The island mouth is smiling
or frowning, who can tell,
stuffed with waning intentions,
sugarcane and sand.
Such a little place, such
an island listing against sorrow
in the middle of the ocean’s gut,
playing make believe
queen of brine, dressing up in green
and calling forth its poets for praise,
its leaders for chesty boasts,
inventing for itself a pantheon
of tropical saints, a vast
and profound literature,
an epic history to rival Rome’s.
There it is, pretending it shimmers
over the heads of its people,
denying the terror it feels
when no one listens, denying
that it is always almost drowning,
that it cannot help anyone, least
of all itself, that it is only
a strip of dirt between morning and night,
between what will be and what was,
between the birth of hope
and the death of desire.