Roatán

Seaside houses sitting on stilts, and the kerosene lamps at night carried by my grandfather.

The feral roosters gathered to sing in the sun sometimes.

(In the same yard: the cats stalk the chickens.)

At night, once, my father took me to see his old ship.

(Who said the ocean sounds like the clang of a bell?)

How did the sea floor not rise up?

(Have I not mentioned my grandmother?)

In the morning, the tilting schools of fishes, the rococo coral, and the sea salt, sea salt colored everything.

(Pitch black when you open your eyes, so you think you are still sleeping.)

Sea turtles in confinement that were bound for soup.

Coconut bread, buttery fish sauce, and crab meat slipping out of cracked legs.

Our bodies should burst into rain.

The sky today is a kingdom of cumulus clouds.

(What are the places we go to when we think of the end?)