Manolin, I see you where the Pacific
Meets your homeland. As the salty fringe
swirls around your coarsened ankles, you
root your sturdy feet to the Cuban shore.
It’s September, and your hope is tethered to
The rhythmic pulse of Marlin beneath the waves.
They suffocate often, and their skeletons sink.
Sometimes, you speak of your first apprenticeship,
When thick-boned leviations surfaced with metal
Hooks, white underbellies catching the midday haze.
Now, you no longer count the seabed’s unmarked graves
Nor mourn the idle dissolution of their remains.
You spend your days among the riptide, the crackling wind,
And the menacing baritone of industry.