whenever I hear west indian men and tongues thick with spanish notes,
i get homesick for the birthplace i missed.
Panama misplaced me in Brooklyn, and i have been trying to get home ever since.
i have been homesick for plantain porrage since
mango trees no longer line my backyard.
i understand now that my spine was built for salsa,
but that song doesn't sing in the wind here.
i desire nothing more than to plant my feet on your warm soil as a sign of my forgiveness.
skin still craves licks from your sun.
my forgiveness tastes like coconut milk,
feels like trees ripe for climbing,
sounds like my tongue still can't speak forgiveness in a language you could understand.
looks like canal gates opening arms for me.
pray you love me beautiful like our history
and forgive me for not writing this sooner.