Digging Press

1.
When I lived in the mountains,
I thought the same color meant the same taste.
Tangerines, oranges and the sun. Citrus.

When I saw my great-grandmother peel a tangerine with her bare hands
while men used knives for oranges, she became God.
I imagined what she could do with the sun.

2.
When I returned to the mountains I was a man with disposable income
and the exchange rate in my favor. Native Tourist.

My primos became maipiolos offering me primas.
They offered to fix and repaint the house my great-grandmother built
with the cinderblocks she flung from New York.

3.

My great-grandmother’s health brought our family back to the mountains.
On her last night, I was in a bar still high from the Haraka scored in Cabarete.

My fat cousin, doubling as chauffeur and bodyguard,
picked me up on his black motoconcho with rum on his breath.

I held on behind him on the motorbike, careful not to touch the 9-millimeter on his hip.
Presidente splashed inside me with every curve.

A flickering headlight showed a winding dirt road up ahead.
Up above a million tiny suns lit the night sky, waiting to be peeled.