From “The Tempest”

My father decided I would be born at sea,

Thirsty & surrounded by the risk of drowning

My father was a great sailor, a seaman, navigated

Only the darkest waters—the sweetest squalls

Which is to say he was a drunk, like his father

Before him, & now I had to learn the rhythm of the waves

How a full moon makes water bulge, makes high & low tide

I had to learn to follow stars home, to strange ports

My father decided I would be born at sea

So he left me in a dugout—the shoreline nowhere in sight

Thank God for the saints—those monoliths on land

Light towers on the sea & eagles in the sky

Which is to say thank God for Mamás, Tías & Abuelas

Where would the wandering sailor babies float to without them

Blessèd be these lights who did their own time on the sea

Who enjoyed a storm or two before the warm hearth of a slick boatsman

Who pay their penance as watchers of the sailor’s bastards

Who drink tears & listen to boleros on Friday & Saturday nights

& yell and scream at us as if we were those lost sailors

& apologize & console us as if we were those lost sailors