The Gulf, 1987

The day upturned, flooded with sunlight, not

a single cloud. I squint into the glare,

cautious even then of bright emptiness.

We sit under shade, Tía Lucia

showing me how white folks dine, the high life.

I am about to try my first oyster,

Tía spending her winnings from the slots

on a whole dozen, the glistening valves

wet and private as a cheek’s other side,

broken open before us. Don’t be shy.

Take it all in at once. Flesh and sea grit,

sweet meat and brine, a taste I must acquire.

In every split shell, the coast’s silhouette:

bodies floating in what was once their home.