Nilda
Lottery Tickets get scratched.
The Hennessey forms a stream.
Newport ashes decorate the concrete.
Hold it tight in your hands—hope,
It’s called Hope.
The Bachata was strung by guitars,
By the lowest of the low. They
Sang hymns of unrequited love, with
Guitar strings plucked like the feathers
Of a rooster. It’s sharpened talons are
Designed to dig deep, dig deep.
Your Mothers favorite rhythms came
From the island, her dark hair glistening.
She said “No Te Olvides”: I will never.
The liquor cannot conjure amnesia.
I am your son, I am