Quisqueya

This Caribbean beat cascades into my body, 


entraps it,


forcing figure-eight hip motion as I move slowly, 


deliberately,


through sun soaked, water weighted air

unbreathable to my New Mexican lungs 


eager for mountainous desert, luke-warm waves. 


Gua-guas, obese with human beings 


fly like hummingbirds past the concrete street I stand on 


the squeaking honk of the vehicle melding 


with street vendor friendly exchanges 


as people grasp the steaming, oil-drenched empanadas in napkins, 


the fleshy aguacates, guanabanas, cajuil 


in yellow synthetic bags 


and machete-hacked coconuts in their empty hands 


to drive away thirst 


or allow for sweet milk to flow down the drinking tube into an awaiting belly. 


Reaching yet another corner colmado I sit on a red plastic chair, 


sip a ½ liter Presidente

allowing the emerald glass to touch my lips 


just as I have allowed this near jungle island to seep into my soul 


unexpectedly.