The beach is where I become one.
Grains of sand form my skin,
Waves help me to swim.
Rays of sun combine to form my glare
and seaweed dangles in ringlets down my back.
Grains of salt are the Spanish words that fall
out of my lips.
They surf along the waves where Castro
will not find them.
Though I have the legs to stand,
the sand that forms land,
have more of a voice than I,
a spoiled little girl from Havana.
Papi built his business
like the seeds of Mami’s plants.
When people stopped wanting cars, Papi could make do,
just like the broken stems of weak plants do.
But the problem is when no one needs.
Castro says Papi doesn’t need to own,
so out of Papi’s hands and into Castro’s the cars go.
Once, we were not far from being rich
Mami and Papi
Jose and Maria
Clara and Carlos, plus a new baby on the way,
we’re so much farther from wealth now.
Especially since our new houseguest,
the one they call Communism,
takes so much from many,
and says we’re all to get the same.
Why doesn’t he understand
not every seed can grow with
a measly inch of rain?